MEMOIRS 


WATER    DRINKER. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 


"  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  OF  THE  ARTS  OF  DESIGN  IN 
THE  UNITED  STATES,"  i(A  HISTORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  THEATRE,"  AND 
"  A  HISTORY  OF  NEW  YORK  FOR  SCHOOLS." 


TWO  VOLUMES  IN  ONE. 
VOL.  I. 

ISMtton. 


NEW   YORK: 

SAUNDERS  AND  OTLEY,  ANN  STREET. 
1837. 


ENTERED,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1836, 

By  WILLIAM  DUNLAP, 
In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of  New-York. 


ps ; 

T5 
18-37 


PREFACE   ,     1 

yV    (  "* 
TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


I  PRESUME  every  author  is  delighted  when  a  new 
edition  of  his  work  is  called  for.  I  confess  that  I  am ; 
and  that  I  am  further  pleased,  that  by  holding  the 
copy-right  of  the  Water  Drinker  in  my  own  hands,  I 
am  enabled  to  present  it  to  the  publick  in  a  form  and 
at  a  price  that  may  tend  to  its  more  general  diffusion 
through  society. 

All  authors  think  their  books  worthy  of  attention. 
I  believe  this  work  not  only  amusing,  but  calculated 
to  produce  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  reader  for  his 
benefit ;  and  I  fear  not  to  say  that  this  conviction  is 
one  strong  reason  for  my  rejoicing  in  the  opportunity 
of  issuing  a  second  and  a  cheap  edition. 


M1A5531 


PREFACE. 


I  PROFESS  to  give  my  readers  a  novel.  That  is, 
something  new.  And  I  will  give  them  something  new ; 
notwithstanding  we  are  truly  told  that  "  there  is  no 
thing  new  under  the  sun" — and  it  might  be  added, 
neither  is  the  sun  new'. 

These  seeming  contradictions  are  perhaps  thus  to  be 
reconciled :  that  although  all  is  old — in  nature  a  mere 
repetition  of  a  rising  sun  in  the  east  and  a  setting  sun 
in  the  west — a  spring,  a  summer,  an  autumn,  and  a 
winter,  going  their  rounds  yearly,  in  most  habitable 
countries  ;  and  that,  in  literature,  it  is  "  a  pouring  out  of 
one  vessel  into  another  :" — yet,  as  the  successive  ge 
neration  of  individuals,  or  nations,  come  into  existence, 
that,  which  is  of  itself  old,  is  to  them  new. 

Nay,  to  the  same  individual,  that  sun,  so  often  seen, 
is  daily  varied  by  situation  in  the  firmament,  and  pre 
sents  every  hour  a  new  face,  as  the  mist  or  the  cloud 
changes  the  medium  through  which  we  behold  him  : 
so  the  landscape,  although  seen  every  day,  is  never 
the  same,  either  in  appearance  or  reality.  The  truths 
or  falsehoods  of  literature,  although  the  same  materials 
may  be  apparently  poured  from  "  one  vessel  into  ano 
ther,"  produce  novelty  by  the  mixture  ;  for  each  ope 
rator  has  a  different  mode  of  mingling  the  ingredients 


VI  PREFACE. 

of  the  chalice,  and  the  materials  themselves  are  some 
times  chemically  changed,  as  it  were,  into  something 
unknown  before.  Thus  although  all  is  old  ;  all  is  new, 
in  some  degree,  to  every  one ;  and  to  the  uninstructed 
in  the  full  extent. 

So  much  to  prove  that  a  novel  may  be  new — now 
to  show  that  although  it  is  a  fiction,  it  may  be  true. 

A  novel  is  in  its  very  nature  a  falsehood ;  yet  if  its 
author  has  the  welfare  of  his  fellow-creatures  at  heart, 
its  substance  and  essence  will  be  truth. 

A  fable  has  been  defined,  "  a  feigned  story  intended 
to  enforce  some  precept ;"  and  a  parable  is  said  to  be 
"  a  relation  under  which  something  else  is  feigned." 
But  they  are  the  same.  They  are  both  feigned  stories, 
which  ought  to  enforce  truth  :  they  are  both  "  relations 
under  which  something  else  is  feigned."  And  such  is 
a  novel. 

The  author  of  the  best  code  of  moral  law  presented 
to  man,  taught  many  of  his  precepts  by  parables.  He 
knew  that  he  must  attract  and  hold  the  attention,  be 
fore  he  could  instruct. 

A  learned  Divine  once  said,  "  When  I  see  my  con 
gregation  inclined  to  sleep,  which  sometimes  happens 
of  an  afternoon,  I  could  wish  to  read  a  novel  to  them 
instead  of  a  sermon.  Or,  almost,  to  see  a  stage  erected 
in  my  church,  and  a  '  Morality'  enacted,  to  awaken 
them  to  the  truths  I  am  in  vain  presenting  from  the 
pulpit."  We  learn  from  this,  that  the  exertion  of  in 
tellect  necessary  for  receiving  instruction  is  easier  made 
when  fasting  than  full — or,  at  least,  that  temperance 
facilitates  thought. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.  I. 


PAGE. 

CHAP.     1.  A  Scene  in  the  Park,  and  a  Walk  on  the  Battery    .        .  5 

2.  Heroines  on  and  off  the  stage    ......  21 

3.  A  Renunciation 33 

4.  Explanations  and  concealments  ...  41 

5.  Beginning  of  a  town— and  a  man  ^        .  45 

6.  A  sporting  gentleman  and  a  philosophic  lady  .        .  51 

7.  We  go  from  home  to  Boston 60 

8.  An  old  Bachelor's  house,  a  Lawyer's  Office,  and  a  Play 

in  Boston 69 

9.  How  to  study  law.— A  change  of  destination  .        .  81 

10.  We  return  home, — Medicine  and  Theology  in  Vermont    .  87 

11.  We  go  to  England,  and  what  we  did  there       ...  85 

12.  We  come  back  to  the  starting-place. — A  Scene  behind 

the  curtain 101 

13.  A  Walk  out  of  town          - 108 

14.  The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  a  horse-shed   .        .117 

15.  The  Walk  back  to  town 123 

16.  The  Lunatic  Asylum 135 

17.  The  result  of  Intemperance,  and  a  sick  chamber    ..        .  149 

18.  A  little  mystery,  and  an  old  acquaintance         .        .        .  157 

19.  A  dinner  party  in  1811 165 

20.  Conversation  and  coffee. — Politeness  and  harmony         .  176 

21.  Midnight  and  an  apparition 186 

22.  Things  as  they  were  thirty  years  ago       ....  200 


THIRTY    YEARS    AGO. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Jl  scene  in  the  Park,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery. 

14  After  your  death  you  were  better  have  a  bad  epitaph  than  their  ill  report 
while  you  live." 

"  They'll  take  suggestions  as  a  cat  laps  milk." — Shakspeare. 

"Nor  numbers,  nor  example,  with  him  wrought 
To  swerve  from  truth." — Milton. 

WHOEVER  has  been  in  the  city  of  New- York,  the  great 
centre  of  the  commerce  of  the  western  world,  must  remem 
ber  the  marble  front  of  the  hall  of  justice,  or  City  Hall. 
Standing  on  the  highest  ground  which  the  democratic  system 
of  filling  up  hollows  by  levelling  hills,  or  lifting  the  low  by  re 
moving  the  superfluity  of  the  high,  has  left  to  the  great  com 
mercial  metropolis.  Lifting  its  stainless  face  in  the  midst  of 
catalpas  and  elms,  poplars  and  sycamores,  the  pride  of  our 
forests,  this  structure,  towers, — like  the  protecting  genius  of  the 
land,  inviting  strangers  to  take  shelter  under  the  guardianship  of 
law,  and  promising  protection  to  the  oppressed  of  all  nations. 

It  was  on  a  fine  day  in  the  October  of  1811,  about  the  hour 
of  noon,  when  the  sun  was  shining  bright  and  giving  a  dazzling 
lustre  to  the  front  of  this  building,  that  two  gentlemen  came 
from  within,  and  descending  the  flight  of  stairs  with  the  gay, 
elastic  and  careless  step  of  youth,  bent  their  way  down  the 
centre  avenue  of  the  enclosure,  in  eager  conversation  :  only 
interrupted  by  occasional  bursts  of  laughter.  It  was  plain  thaf 
they  were  not  of  the  tribe  to  which  this  building  seems  princi 
pally  consigned — the  men  of  the  law — there  was  not  the  hurried 
step,  nor  the  thought-pressed  brow  ;  neither  were  they  of  the 
class  of  jurors  dragged  reluctantly  from  their  own  immediate 
affairs  to  pass  upon  the  interests,  or  the  lives,  or  liberties  of 
others  :  nor  were  they  litigious  clients,  filled  with  doubts  and  fears 
1 


6  Jl  scene  in  the  Park}  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery, 

of  the  law's  uncertainty,  or  vexed  by  its  delay — they  were  lighi 
and  joyous  as  the  day,  (and  what  American  knows  not  the 
beauty  of  an  October  day,)  and  appeared  to  defy  or  be  uncon 
scious  of  the  existence  of  laws,  judges,  or  jurors,  except  as  their 
protectors  from  wrong.  They  were  tastefully  and  fashionably 
dressed,  and  the  shortest,  who  was  not  quite  six  feet  in  height, 
was  a  model  of  manly  beauty;  his  companion  was  of  the 
square  herculean  form,  full  six  feet  high,  with  the  nose  of  a 
Roman  Csesar,  the  eye  of  a  Spanish  contrabandista,  and  the 
complexion  of  a  Circassian  belle. 

The  trees  of  the  Park,  for  so  the  enclosure  is  called*  were 
yet  loaded  with  foliage,  which  the  early  frosts  had  changed  from 
the  uniform  verdant  livery  of  summer,  to  the  motley  brilliancy 
which  distinguishes  our  autumnal  scenery,  presenting  every  tint 
from  gaudy  yellow  to  deep  purple,  through  the  intermediate 
shades  of  orange  and  scarlet ;  from  the  brightest  golden  hue, 
through  various  grades  to  the  dusky  brown,  which  denotes  the 
speedy  separation  of  the  leaves  from  their  parent  stock,  and  return 
to  that  state  in  which  they  become  its  food. 

To  such  of  the  busy  citizens  as,  in  crossing  this  triangular 
pleasure-ground,  find  leisure  to  think  of  nature,  this  imperfect 
glimpse  of  the  beauties  of  American  landscape  might  recall 
other  more  variegated  pictures  ;  the  scenery  of  our  mountains, 
forests,  and  prairies  :  but  these  young  men  were  not,  at  the 
moment  our  story  begins,  thinking  of  woods  and  wilds — the 
beauties  of  nature  occupied  their  thoughts,  but  they  were  beau 
ties  of  a  higher  order,  though  as  fleeting  as  the  changing  foliage 
under  which  they  loitered,  laughed  and  lounged.  They  walked 
half-way  down  the  centre  avenue  and  stopped,  as  if  without 
sufficient  motive  either  to  proceed  or  return  ;  meanwhile  the 
more  Apollo-like  gallant  sported  with  a  terrier  dog  that  follow 
ed  him,  and  who  was  addressed  by  the  familiar  appellation  of 
"  Billy."  After  a  few  minutes  of  this  wanton  idling  they,  dog 
and  all,  bent  their  way  again  towards  the  hall  of  justice  ;  ap 
pearing  to  look  for  some  one  to  join  them  from  thence,  and 
they  had  nearly  reached  the  portico  when  two  verv  dissimilar 
figures  came  out  of  the  front  door  of  the  theatre"  apparently 
from  the  box-office,  and  within  view  of  the  first-mentioned  pair. 
The  Park  theatre,  as  we  all  know,  being  in  its  position  opposite, 
or  nearly  so,  to  the  hall  of  justice. 

The  walk  to  and  from  the  hall  took  some  minutes,  notwith 
standing  that  John  Duncan,  a  Scotch  traveller  and  A.B.,  says 
the  enclosure  we  have  praised  only  contains  half  an  acre.  If 
ever  our  North-British  friend  should  be  condemned  for  his  sins 


Ji  scene  in  the  Par/,1,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery.  7 

io  make  a  pilgrimage  of  the  circumference  of  his  half  acre,  his 
shoes  lined  with  peas,  we  doubt  not  that  he  will  be  happy  to 
take  a  hint  from  a  brother  pilgrim  and  penitent,  of  former  days, 
and  be  especially  careful  to  have  them  well  boiled. 

A  long  loud  laugh  on  the  part  of  one  of  the  first  mentioned 
gentlemen  was  followed  by,  "  He  cannot  certainly  think  of  mar 
rying  her.  Her  personal  attractions  are  not  great,  although  her 
professional  skill  and  talents  may  be  deemed  so  ;  besides,  she's 
a  foot  taller  than  little  Spiff.  They  might  play  the  giantess  and 
Tom  Thumb.  And  her  mysterious  conduct  in  regard  to 
Trowbridge,  both  before  and  after  his  death,  is  too  notorious  to 
allow  of  such  an  alliance  with  a  man  of  Spiffards  correct  way 
of  thinking." 

"  But,"  said  the  other,  who  was  no  less  a  personage  than 
Thomas  Apthorpe  Cooper,  the  justly  celebrated  histrion ; 
"  She  bears  the  name  of  a  man  high  in  his  profession  as  a  tra 
gedian,  and  Spiff  may  know  nothing  of  her  story,  as  he  came 
to  New-York  after  Trowbridge's  death,  and  long  subsequent  to 
the  affair  to  which  you  allude." 

"  He  was  then,  and  for  some  years  before,  in  England,"  said 
the  other. 

"  Hilson  knew  him  there,"  said  the  tragedian,  "  See,  he  is 
coming  out  of  the  theatre  with  his  friend  Tarn." 

As  we  mention  the  names  of  two  well-known  personages, 
and  shall  hereafter  in  the  course  of  our  narrative  frequently 
introduce  more  of  the  same  description,  let  us  pause  for  explana 
tion.  When  we  call  a  character  by  the  name  of  a  real  person, 
dead  or  alive,  still  the  actions  of  such  character,  as  connected 
with  this  tale,  are  in  general  purely  imaginary  ;  and  the  deeds, 
thoughts  and  words  imputed  to  him  or  her.  mere  inventions  of 
the  author's  brain,  meant  to  give  point  to  the  moral  of  his  story, 
or  add  to  the  amusement  of  his  readers.  As  Walter  Scott 
makes  use  of  the  names  of  Cromwell,  Charles  Stuart,  Ireton, 
Claverhouse,  Montrose  and  others  to  decorate  his  characters 
withal,  so  we  in  our  humble  history  of  domestic  life,  take 
those  of  Cooke,  Cooper,  Hilson  and  other  mimic  heroes  and 
and  mimic  villains,  for  our  purposes,  as  well  as  some  well 
known  names  of  politicians  and  professional  men  of  that  time. 
If  the  action  or  incident  attributed  to  the  person  is  real,  the 
reader  may  look  for  a  note  indicating  it  to  be  so.  But  we 
will  not,  if  we  have  any  skill  in  our  vocation,  appropriate  actions 
to  any  one,  bearing  the  name  of  a  real  personage,  which  shall 
be  at  variance  with  the  general  character  of  the  person  from 
whom  the  name  is  borrowed  ;  although  we  might  plead  in  e&- 


8  Jl  scene  in  the. Park,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery. , 

cuse  that,  the  great  Scotch  novelist  has  made  the  greatest  man 
in  England  play  the  part  of  commander  of  a  sergeant's  guardy 
or  a  bailiff  with  a  search  warrant,  when  he  (Oliver  Cromwell) 
was  in  possession  of  supreme  power.  Once  for  all,  we  protest 
that  this  real  history  is  an  unreal  mockery  as  it  respects  charac 
ters  and  events  :  all  is  a  fabricated  tissue  wrought  by  the  brain  y 
or  the  imagination,  from  the  materials  collected  during  a  long 
and  variegated  life.  But  as  all  images  must  have  had  exis 
tence  from  previous  impressions  made  by  realities*  the  fan 
tastic  combination,  which  we  intend  to  present,  may  leave  a  les 
son  of  profit  on  the  memory*  for  the  reader's  conduct  in  real  life. 

For  we  do  believe  that  our  book  contains  true  pictures  of 
human  nature,  and  that  the  actions  therein  described  are  the 
actions  of  men  and' women,  appropriate  to  real  men  and  women 
in  similar  circumstances,  and  that  the  consequences  we  attri 
bute  to  the  actions  of  our  imaginary  characters  are  the  result  of 
such  actions,  and  will  ever  result  from  them.  Therefore  is  our 
book,  although  a  novel  and  a  fiction,  a  book  of  truth  ;  calculated 
to  amend  the  heart,  while  it  enlists  the  imagination  under  the 
colours  of  fancy. 

But  to  proceed. — The  tragedian  and  his  companion,  hav 
ing  again  turned,  had  reached  one  of  the  avenues  of  the  Park 
on  the  east  side,  and  were  in  full  view  of  the  theatre* 
The  herculean  gentleman  took  a  quizzing  glass  from  his 
pocket  and  applying  it  to  one  eye,  said,  "  It  is  Spiff  and  Tarn, 
sure  enough.  Suppose  you  introduce  the  subject  of  the  lady, 
and  the  world's  babble  about  her,  to  show  Spiff  that  we  have 
heard  something,  if  he  has  not." 

"  Agreed,"  said  the  tragedian.  "  We  shall  have  some  sport 
at  any  rate.  It  will  be  nuts  for  Tarn."  The  two  gentlemen 
from  the  theatre  had  now  advanced  to  the  gate  of  the  park  op 
posite  Beekman-street,  and  were  entering  the  enclosure. 

As  one  of  the  new-comers  is  the  principal  actor  in  our 
Drama,  and  as  both  once  were  the  very  soul  of  hilarity — the 
delight  of  the  laughter-loving  throngs  who  crowd  play-houses 
to  see  the  creatures  of  Shakspeare  and  Sheridan,  Coleman  and 
O'Keefe — to  gaze  at  scenes  of  imaginary  magnificence,  and 
forget  the  poverty  they  have  left  at  home  ;  as  both  are  impor 
tant  to  the  readers  of  this  work,  and  one  the  very  pivot  on  which 
all  our  machinery  turns,  we  will  introduce  them  by  a  graphic 
description  of  their  persons. 

Zebediah  Spiffard,  or  as  his  companions  familiarly  called 
him,  "  Zeb.  Spiff."  was  in  height  rather  less  than  five  feet  five 
inches.  He  was  remarkably  square  and  muscular,  at  the 


JL  scene  in  the  Park,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery.  9 

?$arne  time  that  he  looked  attenuated  from  the  absence  of  all 
those  unctuous  particles  which  give  plumpness  and  swelling 
contour  to  persons  who  like  him  are  possessed  of  youth,  and 
endowed  with  health,  strength  and  activity.  There  was  no 
rounding  of  feature  or  limb ;  all  was  angular  and  sharp, 
His  head  was  large  and  thickly  covered  with  coarse  sandy  hair^ 
(or  rather  a  bright  orange  red>)  and  his  face  was  long  enough 
for  a  man  of  six  feet.  This  face  was  in  every  feature,  and  in 
the  physiognomical  combination  (if  we  may  be  allowed  the  ex 
pression)  truly  remarkable.  The  forehead  was  low,  the  eye 
brows  bushy,  strongly  marked,  and  almost  meeting  ;  they  were 
attached  to  powerful  muscles,  and  could  be  moved  in  various 
directions  :  his  eyes  were  large  and  prominent,  the  colour  of  the 
iris  hazle,  nstufctHy  bright,  but  so  covered  by  the  upper  lid,  as, 
when  not  animated  by  passion,  or  excited  by  mirth,  to  appear 
sleepy  and  lifeless  ;  yet  occasionally  full  of  fire  ;  and  capable, 
in  concert  with  the  flexible  brows,  of  great  comic  expression,  as 
well  as  strong  and  concentrated  marks  of  emotion.  The  nose 
belonging  to  this  extraordinary  face  was  thin,  high,  and  ex 
tremely  hooked ;  with  wide,  ever-moving  nostrils.  The  cheeks 
hollow,  freckled,  and  pale ;  the  mouth  wide,  lips  thin,  and 
bloodless  ;  teeth  long,  regular  and  white  ;  the  chin  square,  yet 
sharp,  having  an  edge  though  no  point :  in  short,  such  a  combi 
nation  of  feature  and  limb  in  face  and  person,  was  never  seen 
before  nor  since.  JSpitfard's  gait  was  as  singular  as  his  physiog 
nomy.  His  step  was  long,  slow,  and  slouching  ;  and  although 
he  bore  his  head  erect  (as  most  short  people  do)  he  walked  with 
his  body  bent  a  little  forward  at  every  stride.  His  voice  was 
strong  and  clear ;  usually  pitched  high,  but  of  great  compass ; 
mid  his  enunciation  was  deliberate  and  distinct  in  conversation, 
but  on  the  stage,  in  such  characters  as  required  the  effort,  it  was 
uncommonly  rapid,  without  losing  force  or  distinctness.  Such 
was  Zebediah  Spiffard,  a  Yankee  by  birth,  and  a  water-drinker 
in  practice. 

Spiffard's  companion  at  this  time  was  Thomas  Hilson  ;  who, 
in  appearance  was  a  contrast  to  the  Yankee  water-drinker, 
though  in  height  and  breadth  nearly  the  same,  probably  an  inch 
or  two  taller.  His  frame  well  proportioned  to  his  head.  His 
muscles  full  and  round.  All  his  form  indicating  power  without 
the  hardness  of  his  companion's.  His  dark  hair  curled  naturally 
and  gracefully.  His  forehead  was  high  and  while.  His  eyes 
small,  black,  and  laughing.  His  nose  far  from  prominent,  and 
partaking  of  the  rubies  of  his  cheeks  and  mouth,  which  both 
glowed  with  the  richest  natural  carmine  that  health  could  be- 

1* 


10         Jl  scene  in  the  Parfc,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery, 

stow  ;  the  cheeks  and  chin  only  rivalled  by  the  colour  of  the  lips* 
His  whole  physiognomy  marked  by  youth,  fun,  frolic,  and 
ntelligence. 

1  Hilson's  gait  was  erect,  firm,  and  elastic.  His  voice  deep  and 
powerful.  His  enunciation  always  rapid,  and  accompanied  by 
a  slight  lisp.  Such  were  the  two  dissimilar  persons  who  now 
joined  the  tragedian  and  his  companion  within  the  precincts  of 
the  Park. 

"  Well  Tarn"  said  Cooper,  accosting  Hilson  familiarly, 
"  what  is  doing  on  the  stage  1" 

"  Strange  doings  are  going  forward,"  was  the  reply.'4  Old 
Cooke  is  rehearsing  a  love  scene  with  Mrs.  Trowbridge:  that's 
strange,  because  she  generally  chooses  younger  lovers — but 
what  is  not  strange — he  is  under  the  influence  of  last  night's 
jollification :  rather  blind." 

"  And  how  does  Mrs.  Trowbridge  take  blind  love  ?"  asked 
tke  tragedian,  chuckling  to  find  Hilson  stumbling  at  the  first 
step  on  the  subject  he  wished. 

"  Very  kindly,"  replied  the  ruddy  comedian :  "  as  ladies 
should  take  love.  The  blind  are  entitled  to  pity,  and  pity  leads 
the  soul  to  love." 

"A  man  must  be  blind  in  some  way  or  other  who  could  make 
love  to  Mrs.  Trowbridge,"  said  Allen — for  such  was  the  name  of 
the  tragedian's  herculean  companion, — the  man  with  the  imperial 
nose,  towering  height,  and  Circassian  skin. 

The  four  young  men  appeared  to  be  well  acquainted  with 
each  other — indeed  on  terms  of  intimacy — and  when  this  chat 
first  began,  Allen  had  saluted  Spiffard  with  the  air  of  every-day 
familiarity.  The  latter  had  not  yet  spoken ;  but  with  a  con 
strained  smile  and  half  closed  eyes  appeared  not  to  notice  the 
words  of  his  companions. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  the  laughing  tragedian,  address 
ing  the  last  speaker,  "  sure  you  would  not  disparage  her  charms? 
They  are  undeniably  great.  I  think,  Allen,  she  would  overtop 
you.  And  for  weight — your  scale  would  kick  the  beam  if  we 
gave  you  half  a  hundred  as  a  make-weight." 

"  Heaven  forbid,"  replied  Allen, "  that  I  should  be  weighed  in 
the  same  scales  with  a  lady  of  such  ponderous  person  and  gossi- 
mer  reputation.  Besides,  I  hope  never  to  come  so  near  her  high 
weightiness  as  only  to  be  divided  from  her  by  the  length  of  a 
scale-beam." 

Spiffard  affected  to  laugh.  His  face  was  convulsed.  A  slight 
flush  passed  over  his  pallid  cheek.  His  under  mandible  was 
projected,  and  his  thin  lips  quivered.  He  at  length  with  a  ghastly 


Jl  scene  in  the  Park,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery.  1 1 

smile  said, "  very  gallant !  Gentlemen  !  Ha  ha !  Very  gallant ! 
and  no  doubt  very  witty." 

"  Does  she  not — ?"  asked  Allen,  sinking  the  last  word  in  Hil- 
son's  ear. 

"  It  is  more  than  suspected"  said  Hilson — '•  and  as  to  the 
mother — "  here  was  another  mysterious  whisper,  and  Spiffard 
made  another  convulsive  and  abortive  attempt  at  a  laugh. 

**  I  do  not  believe  it  of  the  daughter,"  said  the  tragedian. 

"  By  the  by,  Spiff,"  said  Hilson,  "  they  begin  to  talk  of  you 
and  the  lady  ;  and  it  has  been  currently  reported  that  you  have 
made  proposals — and  further  they  do  say  that  she  does  not  look 
down  upon,  but  condescendingly  stoops  to  meet  your  lofty  pre 
tensions.  If  it  should  be  so — all  I  say  is — such  a  pair  is  the 
long  and  the  short  of  matrimonial  felicity." 

"  Ha  ha  ha  !  well  said  Tarn  ! — but  will  the  water-drinker, 
the  man  whose  cold  cup  never  coddles  his  calculation,  the  phi 
losopher  whose  transparent  draught  never  discolours  the  object 
he  contemplates — will  he,  take  such  a  leap  in  the  dark  ! 
The  cold-blooded  sage  whose  cup  can  never  excuse  a  despe 
rate  act !  Why  if  common  fame  says  true — " 

The  tragedian  was  fortunately  interrupted.  Spifiard  cut  short 
the  intended  portentous  on  dit  by  exclaiming,  **  You  are  very 
facetious  gentlemen !  But  I  must  stop  the  current  of  your 
mirth  even  at  the  risk  that  its  overflow  may  blast  some  unpro 
tected  name.  I  now  inform  you  that  your  merriment  is  misdi 
rected,  as  the  person  of  whom  you  speak  is  my  wife.  Mrs. 
Trowbridge  that  ivas,  is  now  Mrs.  Spiffard."  While  the  three 
stood  aghast — after  a  pause,  he  added,  "  I  am  her  protector — 
and  that  gentlemen,  is  the,  long  and  the  short,  of  it." 

Great  as  we  are  at  descriptions  of  the  human  countenance 
divine,  we  will  not  attempt  to  portray  the  faces  of  either  the 
face-making  tragedian  or  comedian,  on  hearing  this  speech  from 
Spiffard.  The  curtain  no  longer  half  hid  the  sleepy  eye.  It 
turned  flashing  from  one  to  the  other,  while  the  flushed  cheek 
and  bent  brow  spoke  displeasure.  Allen,  a  mere  tyro  in  the  art 
of  face-making,  was  motionless  and  dumb.  He  looked  any 
where  but  at  Spiffard.  The  tragedian  and  comedian  (Cooper 
and  Hilson)  exchanged  glances  ;  and  the  latter,  with  a  tone  in 
which  good  sense  and  good  nature  combined  said,  "Pooh,  pooh, 
we  have  carried  the  joke  too  far — Beg  your  pardon,  Spiff.  We 
knew  it.  Wish  you  joy  with  all  my  heart — but  you  deserve  all 
the  hoax  for  stealing  a  march  on  us.  A  married  man  should 
never  attempt  to  pass  for  a  bachelor.  We  shall  insist  on  a  treat 


IS          Jl  scene  in  the  Park,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery. 

though — Ha,  Cooper  ? — A  rump  and  dozen.— We  drink  wine 
though  you  don't.  Ha  ! — what  say  you  ?— Wish  you  joy  !"  and 
eo  saying  he  took  the  manager's  arm  and  they  moved  off  across 
the  Park  to  Broadway.  Allen  was  left  with  the  Benedict,  and 
not  having  the  facilities  of  the  theatre,  he  very  awkwardly  itera 
ted  "  wish  you  joy — Mr.  Spiffard  !"  Then  turned  and  followed 
the  heroes  of  the  sock  and  buskin. 

Poor  Zeb — our  hero—for  he  is  the  hero  of  this  true  history, 
however  defective  he  may  appear,  and  shorn  of  the  usual  qual 
ifications,  stood  as  fixed  as  an  antique  statue,  although  in  contour 
or  attitude  nothing  like  ;  his  feet  were  thrown  out  like  the  pic 
ture  (in  that  book  of  wonders,  called  "  the  nine  wonders  of  the 
world")  of  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes — and  bending  his  head  for 
ward  in  the  direction  of  his  late  tormentors,  he  ejaculated,  "  Joy  ! 
The  joy  ye  wish  me  go  with  ye.  Confound  ye  all ! — what  have  I 
to  do  with  such  jesters  ?"  Then  turning  towards  the  gate  by 
which  he  had  entered,  he  strided  slowly  back  from  whence  he 
came,  not  knowing  exactly  what  he  aimed  at  or  whither  he  was1 
going. 

After  a  few  long  strides,  which  denoted  rather  the  presence  of 
muscular  power  than  presence  of  mindrhe  began  to  soliloquize 
aloud.  Was  it  a  trick  theatrical  ?  Was  it  a  hc?bit  derived  from 
the  stage  ?  Or  is  it  natural  and  common  to  most  men?  We 
are  inclined  to  the  latter  opinion.  We  cannot  recollect  the  time 
when  we  did  not  think  aloud,  especially  when  under  the  influ 
ence  of  extraordinary  excitement.  Theatrical? — There  are 
many  things  and  actions  which  in  vulgar  parlance  are  called 
theatrical,  meaning  thereby  unnatural.  Trust  usr  ladies,  the 
truly  theatrical,  is  the  truly  just  imitation  of  nature.  The  wri 
tings  of  Shakspeare  are  theatrical — the  gesticulations  of  Cooke 
and  Garrick,  of  Kean  and  Kemble  were  theatrical  ;  those  of 

Mr. on  the  stage,  or  Mr. in  the  pulpit,  are  neither 

theatrical,  nor  natural.  But — whether  you  trust  us  or  not — Zeb 
began  very  naturally  and  audibly,  thus  :  "  What  do  those  fel 
lows  mean  ?"  He  then  took  three  strides.  "  They  are  eminent 
at  a  quiz — notorious.  But  then  it  is  plain  that  they  did  not  know 
that  I  was  married  ;  and  they  might  have  meant" — 

Thus  speaking,  he  opened  the  same  gate  at  which  he  had  en 
tered  in  perfect  tranquillity  a  few  minutes  before.  This  gate,  a? 
mutable  as  his  happiness,  has  long  passed  away — thrown  by — 
split  up  to  kindle  some  kitchen-wench's  kettle-boiling  fire— it 
was  unlike  the  iron  enclosure  of  the  present  day,  but  way 
a  ricketty  wooden  pale-gate  drawn  back  by  a  chain  and  bullet. 
"  From  my  soul  I  hope — "  "  You  are  very  rude,  Sir !"  squeak'd 


Jl  scene  in  the  Park,  and  a  walk  on  the  EaUery.          13 

a  female  voice — for  he  had  most  indecorously,  though  uncon 
sciously,  pressed  against  a  girl,  who  supposing  he  opened  the 
gate  to  let  her  pass,  was  entering  the  park — •'  I  hope  it  is  all  a 
quiz,"  said  Zeb,  looking  her  full  in  the  face  without  seeing  her. 
"  No  quizzing  matter,  you  ugly,  impudent  fellow."  She  passed 
on,  adjusting  her  bonnet.  He  went  on  talking.  "  My  mind 
misgives  me — I  now  remember  circumstances — I  now  remem 
ber — I — have  been  precipitate — perhaps" — He  walked  faster, 
and  his  strides  became  even  longer.  "  To  marry  on  so  short 
an  acquaintance" — 

"  How  do  you  do,  my  boy ! "  cried  a  cheerful  but  harsh 
voice  ;  and  looking  up  he  saw  George  Frederick  Cooke  de 
scending  the  stairs  in  front  of  the  theatre. 

The  appearance  of  the  veteran  denoted  that  at  least  fifty-five 
winters  had  passed  over  his  head.  His  once  athletic  framo 
had  lost  the  rounded  outline  of  youth,  and  assumed  the  hard 
inflexible  contours  of  age  :  yet  his  port  was  erect,  and  his  step 
though  stiff  was  firm ;  especially  when  he  was  under  the  in 
fluence,  as  at  present,  of  the  poison  which  was  destroying  him. 
It  might  be  said  of  him  in  Shakspeare's  words, 

"He  is  in  his  fit  now;  and  does  not  talk  after  the  wisest." 

His  features  were  large,  and  had  lost  none  of  their  plastic 
power — they  could  give  form  to  the  poet's  airy  creations,  and 
were  capable  of  expressing  the  widest  range  of  passion.  His 
forehead  was  broad,  high,  and  prominent.  His  eyes  of  a 
dark  grey,  the  upper  eye-lids  projecting  and  filling  the  space 
between  the  brows  and  the  coloured  portion  of  the  organ. 
When  the  pupil  of  the  eye  expanded,  it  gave  to  the  whole  iris  the 
appearance  of  brilliant  hazle,  almost  black.  The  space  be 
tween  his  brows  was  remarkably  wide.  His  nose  was  aquiline 
and  broad,  without  deserving  the  epithet  "  Roman."  The 
whole  physiognomy  denoted  something  uncommon,  and  by 
nature,  commanding.  His  grey  hair  was  neatly  dressed,  pow 
dered,  and  (behind)  gathered  into  a  short  queue,  which,  with  his 
suit  of  grey  broad-cloth,  gave  him  an  old-school  air,  very  pre 
possessing,  and  "  every  inch  "  a  gentleman. 

Spiffard  would  willingly,  at  this  time,  have  avoided  him ;  but 
the  gay  tragedian,  (who  was  at  the  second  day's  progress  in 
one  of  those  careers  of  folly  which  it  is  well  known  ended  in 
prostration  of  strength  and  intellect,  and  finally  in  death)  had 
taken  enough  of  the  stimulating  poison  to  render  him  talkative, 
and  unceremonious  ;  and  had  already  seized  the  melancholy 
comedian  by  the  arm.  The  deference  due  to  age,  and  to 
the  Drama's  hero,  rendered  the  miserable  husband  passive. 


14         .#  scene  in  the  Par  A",  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery. 

Cooke  walked  on,  and  talked  on ;  while  Spiffard  sometimes 
attending,  and  oftener  thinking  of  home,  and  the  scenes  of  do 
mestic  discord  which  his  fears  told  him  were  preparing  for 
him,  led  the  garrulous  veteran  down  Broadway  towards  the 
Battery. 

«*  We  have  got  through  rehearsal,"  said  the  tragedian,  "  Not 
very  clear.  It  is  sometime  since  I  played  Penruddock. 
John's  the  best  Penruddock.  Black  Jack,"  such  was  his 
familiar  appellation  for  his  great  rival,  Kemble.  "  I  must  read 
the  part  before  night.  I  should  have  stuck  but  for  Mrs.  Trow- 
b ridge.  She  is  a  fine  spirited  widow  ;  flesh  enough  about  her, 
and,  flesh  is  frailty ;  a  little  haughty  in  the  toss  of  her  head,  but 
that  commanding  brow  of  hers  suits  tragedy.  They  say  she 
is  not  always  on  stilts — who  is  ?  I  knew  nothing  of  Trow- 
bridge ;  they  say  he  played  tragedy  well,  he  was  a  Yankee  I 
believe  ;  a  Yankee  tragedian  !  A  Yankee  king !  King  of 
the  Yankee-doodles  !  Pie  was  a  favourite  with  the  ladies  I  am 
told,  ladies  of  free  and  dashing  demeanour  ;  and  Mrs.  Trow- 
bridge— " 

Zeb.  tried  to  change  the  too  evident  current  of  his  thoughts 
by  asking,  "  Do  you  think,  sir,  that  she  resembles  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons?" 

"  What !  Sarah  ?  No,  sirr  !  Sarah  is  the  Queen  of  Trage 
dy  as  well  as  the  Tragic  Queen.  The  Tragic  Muse  herself ! 
John  is  great,  Black  Jack,  as  we  call  him,  but  he  is  nothing  to 
Sarah.  I  wonder,  sir,  that  any  one  who  has  seen  the  Siddons 
should  make  the  comparison.  Compare  Mrs.  Trowbridge  to 
the  Siddons  !  Blasphemy  !  that  is,  stage  blasphemy !  She 
may  pass  though  for  a  Yankee  Siddons.  Sarah  is  tall,  but  this 
woman  is  a  grenadier  in  petticoats.  A  good  eye,  though — and 
a  wicked.  A  fine  black  brow,  but  she's  nothing  to  the  Siddons  ! 
They  are  a  very  extraordinary  family.  Charles  is  a  good  lad. 
Often  has  Charles  sat  up  to  see  me  home,  good  fellow,  when 
John  and  I,  Heaven  bless  us,  were  both  past  seeing.  But 
Sarah's  the  pride  of  the  flock.  John  is  a  poet ;  and  can  take 
the  inspiring  draught  too,  like  other  poets.  There  is  Byron — 
My  dear  boy,  of  all  vices  that  is  the  most  detestable  !  the  most 
destructive  !  the  most  insidious  ! — it  undermines  the  constitu 
tion  of  the  strongest,  and  levels  the  loftiest  talent  with  the 
meanest.  You  are  young,  Mr.  Spiffard,  and  comparatively  have 
seen  little  of  either  the  real  or  the  mimic  world.  I  can  tell 
you  from  observation,  sir,"  and  lowering  his  head,  and  then 
looking  up,  askance,  over  his  shoulder  as  if  addressing  a  third 
person,  and  at  the  same  time  changing  the  tone  of  his  voice, 


Jl  scene  in  the  Par/:,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery.         15 

"  perhaps,  I  might  say  experience  :"  then  resuming  his  former 
high  harsh  tone  and  imperative  manner,  "  sirr,  it  is  the  bane  of 
both  health  and  talent,  it  is  *  the  accursed  thing,'  sir,  as  much  as 
that  spoken  of  in  holy  writ."  Then  with  another  sudden  change 
of  voice  accompanied  by  a  corresponding  expression  of  his 
changeful  eye,  he  added,  "  I  see,  you  laugh,  sirr ;  yet  the  Devil 
can  quote  scripture  for  his  purposes  ;  but  he  never  does  so  for 
the  purpose  of  warning  from  evil  as  I  do  now."  Then  with 
a  firm  and  dignified  air  he  continued.  "  Sirr,  it  is  the  besetting 
sin  of  our  profession — the  efforts  we  make  exhaust  us,  and 
we  fly  to  stimulants  for  relief  or  support  in  those  exertions  we 
have  yet  to  make.  At  midnight  we  go  from  the  theatre  to 
the  tavern,  or  the  hospitable  board  of  an  admirer,  and  we  fur 
ther  exhaust,  instead  of  repairing  exhausted  nature.  This,  sirr, 
becomes  habit,  and  we  become  drunkards — drunkards,  sirr ! 
Sirr,  the  mind  and  body  of  the  drunkard  becomes  enfeebled 
until  he  appears  only  to  live  when  under  the  influence  of  the 
poison  which  is  consuming  him.  When  in  possession  of  his 
reason  he  feels  his  lost  condition — he  loathes  existence,  yet  he 
dreads  its  termination — as  reason  torments  him,  he  seeks  mad 
ness,  and  the  desire  of  life  hurries  him  on  to  death,  here  and 
hereafter."  Spiffard  gazed  upon  the  speaker  intensely.  The 
meaning  of  the  excessive  interest  he  displayed  may  be  hereafter 
explained. 

As  Cooke  ended  they  found  themselves  opposite  to  the  City 
Hotel,  and  the  moralizer  suddenly  exclaimed, "  My  dear  boy,  step 
in  here  with  me.  Let  us  look  over  the  files  of  English  papers.  It 
is  so  refreshing  to  read  an  English  paper.  The  Yankee  journals 
are  as  flat  as  the  whole  surface  of  society  in  this  country — a  dead 
level — we  look  in  vain  for  the  splendid  column  with  its  Corin 
thian  capital — the  princely  inheritor  of  millions  who  diffuses 
splendour  on  all  around  him  and  attracts  the  gaze  of  every  eye." 
"  True,"  said  Spiffard,  "  and  we  cannot  find  thousands  who 
are  prostrate  in  the  dust ;  or  the  kneeling  supporters  of  the  one 
princely  column." 

The  tragedian  did  not  appear  to  notice  this  Yankee  observa 
tion  ;  but  saying,  in  a  hurried  manner,  "  I  have  an  ugly  pain," 
he  hastened  into  the  bar-room  of  the  hotel,  and  his  com 
panion  followed. 

Spiffard  sat  down  and  took  up  a  newspaper.  Cooke  went  tQ 
the  bar,  and  gave  a  practical  illustration  of  his  discourse  on 
the  evils  of  ebriety,  by  adding  more  fire  to  ths  consuming 
flame  within — by  seeking  in  madness  a  refuge  from  reason  an<| 
conscience. 


16         Jl  scene  in  the  Par  A*,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery. 

The  unhappy  bridegroom  looked  on  the  newspaper,  hut  it 
was  a  blank  to  his  eyes  ;  his  mind  was  far  away.  He  ruminated 
upon  what  he  had  heard  in  the  Park  ;  he  endeavoured  to  deter 
mine  upon  the  manner  in  which  he  should  conduct  himself  at 
his  next  meeting  with  his  wife.  The  first  thing  to  be  done  was 
to  announce  his  marriage  to  the  public,  and  have  Mrs.  SpifFard's 
name  put  in  the  play-bills.  This  being  resolved  as  a  first 
step,  then  came  thronging  on  his  mind,  doubts,  resolutions, 
objections,  recollections,  jealousies,  arid  dire  misgivings,  which 
made  his  heart  sink  at  one  moment,  and  at  the  next  seem  to  rise 
and  swell  almost  to  suffocation.  He  forgot  all  present  objects. 
He  struck  his  fist  upon  the  table  at  which  he  sat,  and  exclaimed, 
"  I  will  have  some " 

The  sentence  was  left  unfinished,  for  the  sound  of  his  voice 
brought  to  his  mind  the  place  in  which  he  was  about  to  solilo 
quize,  and  to  his  eyes  the  surrounding  objects  ;  and  this  awaken 
ing  of  his  faculties  was  aided  by  an  audible  exclamation  and 
start  on  the  part  of  a  gentleman  who  sat  nearly  opposite  to 
him,  absorbed  in  the  price  of  stocks  as  reported  in  the  Daily 
Advertiser.  Among  the  surrounding  objects  stood  a  waiter. 

"  Some  what  sir  1     What  will  you  please  to  have  ?  " 

"  Come,  my  boy !  "  said  Cooke.-  "  Let  us  be  moving.  I 
feel  better.  Let  us  be  going.  Exercise  is  the  parent  of 
health." 

"  Yes  sir,"  said  the  comedian,  rising,  "  and  temperance, 
the  preserver." 

They  left  the  tavern,  and  Cooke,  yet  more  garrulous,  proceed 
ed  with  additional  powers  of  voice  and  energy  of  emphasis, 
"  Let  us  continue  our  ramble.  Exercise  gives  health  of  body 
and  mind  :  promotes  cheerfulness,  dispels  the  thick-coming 
fancies  of  the  brain,  which  late  revels,  and  slothful  morning 
indulgences  (two  familiar  sins  of  our  profession)  bring  upon  us. 

Spiffard  had  willingly  obeyed  the  summons,  glad  to  be  reliev 
ed,  in  some  degree,  from  his  own  thoughts  by  change  of  place  ; 
and  the  veteran,  leaning  on  his  arm,  continued  to  pour  forth 
his  remarks  and  moralizings  with  renewed  energy,  but  with 
increasing  abruptness. 

As  they  passed  in  front  of  Trinity  church,  Cooke,  (to  use  the 
phraseology  of  his  profession)  took  his  cue  from  the  object 
before  him,  and  forcing  his  companion's  distracted  attention  by 
making  a  stop  and  pointing  to  the  door  of  the  building,  he  com 
menced  one  of  those  rhapsodies  which  his  unfortunate  habits 
and  peculiar  mind  made  so  strikingly  his  own.  "  What  a  mass 
of  deformity  in  architecture  these  Yankees  have  made  of  this 


A  scene  in  the  Park,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battenj.         17 

once  noble  gothic  edifice  !  It  now  belongs  to  no  order  or  age. 
I  remember  it,  when  proudly  it  towered  a  monument  of  the 
taste  of  Englishmen,  and  the  liberality  of  the  church  and  gov 
ernment  of  England.  A  pure  specimen  of  the  rich  and  awe- 
inspiring  gothic  without,  and  decorated  within  by  the  sculptures 
and  paintings  of  the  most  eminent  artists  of  Britain.  "What  is 
it  now  ?  A  Yankee  specimen  of  republican  economy  !  They 
had  better  have  left  it  a  noble  ruin  as  they  made  it  when  they 
fled  from  their  gracious  monarch's  armies,  sent  in  mercy  to  teach 
them  their  true  interests.  I  remember,  sirr " 

"  You  !  Mr.  Cooke  !  » 

"  Yes,  sirr  !  I,  George  Frederick  Cooke  !  I  remember 
Trinity  church  in  its  pride,  and  I  remember  it  in  its  ruins,  even 
then  infinitely  more  beautiful  than  in  its  present  state.  During 
the  rebellion,  sirr,  when  we  occupied  this  city  by  right  of  con 
quest,  the  public  mall,  the  favourite  walk,  was  in  front  of  the 
ruins  of  that  proud  building  which  even  then  from  its  dilapidated 
turrets  spoke  in  praise  of  monarchy  and  prelacy — of  church 
and  state-— and  frowned  on  democracy  and  rebellion.  Then, 
sirr,  every  evening  in  summer,  we  had  our  military  bands  of 
regimental  musicians  playing  loyal  airs  in  the  church  yard,  while 
we  promenaded  with  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  refugees 
and  loyalists,  and  confirmed  them  in  the  love  of  old  England. 
In  the  morning,  s,irr,  it  was  the  parade  ground,  from  which  the 
guards  were  detailed,  and  marched  with  drum,  fife,  trumpet, 
bugle,  an*  bagpipe,  to  their  stations.  The  main  guard  was 
down  there,  in  Wall-street,  where  the  Custom  House,  now 
stands.  There  stood  the  old  City  Hall  and  Court  House,  pro 
jecting  into  the  street.  Sirr,  you  stare  at  my  knowledge  of 
this  place,  and  its  history — come  on,  sirr !"  By  this  time  some 
other  auditors  were  collecting,  and  he  moved  on,  but  soon  re 
sumed  his  rhodomontade.  "  The  night  after  we  crossed  from 
Brooklyn,  all  this  part  of  the  city,  including  old  Trinity,  was  one 
sheet  of  flame — all  was  burnt  by  the  rebel  incendiaries.  All 
on  fire  from  Trinity  downwards,  and  then  across  to  the  east, 
leaving  Kennedy's  and  a  few  houses  towards  Fort  George, 
and  the  Battery.  Here  stood  an  old  Sectarian  meeting  house 
which  the  flames  had  spared,  and  we  made  a  military  store 
house  of  it.  The  Yankee  shopkeepers  have  built  what  they 
think  an  elegant  church  on  the  site  and  called  it  **  Grace," 
there  is  grace  in  making  it  episcopal.  Heaven  grant  them  grace 
to  improve  their  taste  in  architecture  !  It  looks  more  like  a 
storehouse  still  than  a  temple.'' 

Thus  the  excited  old  man  poured  forth  his  recollections  from 
2 


18         A  scene  in  the  Park,  and  a  walk  on  the  Battery* 

reading  or  from  associating  with  officers  who  had  been  in 
America  at  the  time  he  spoke  of,  mingled  with  his  imaginings, 
as  the  objects  they  passed  suggested  images  of  things  partly 
remembered  and  partly  created.  Thus  with  rapid  strides  and 
occasional  pauses,  he  proceeded  on  his  way,  every  word  and 
every  action  marking  that  state  of  increasing  excitement,  which 
added  an  unnatural  power  to  his  colloquial  faculties.  His 
young  companion,  glad  to  escape  from  his  own  thoughts,  gave 
way  to  the  interest  created  by  the  remarks  of  his  leader,  and 
hung,  wondering,  uponhis  copious,  singular,  and  wild  eloquence. 
They  arrived  at  the  Bowling-green.  "  There,  sirr,"  con 
tinued  Cooke.  "  There  stood  the  equestrian  statue  of  his 
sacred  Majesty  George  the  Third,  my  royal  master  ! — 
There,  sirr,  within  that  circular  enclosure.  It  was  of 
lead,  gilt  over."  Then  with  a  sudden  change  of  voice  and 
countenance,  looking  over  his  shoulder  as  if  speaking  to  some 
one  behind  him,  in  an  under  tone  he  added,  "  Gilded  lead,  said 
by  the  vile  Jacobites,  to  be  an  apt  emblem  of  the  house  of 
Hanover."  Again  resuming  his  former  tone  and  manner,  he 
proceeded,  "  Before  we  landed,  the  rebels  had  melted  the 
Lord's  anointed,  and  cast  the  heavy  material  into  bullets — mus 
ket  balls  to  murder  his  loyal  subjects— thus  adding  sacrilege  to 
parricide,  rebellion,  murder  and  treason.  Yes,  sirr,  his  leaden 
majesty  was  dethroned  before  we  gained  the  town — but  1  re 
member  Pitt's  statue  in  Wall  street,  the  rebels  left  mm  standing 
because  he  was  the  leader  of  the  opposition  in  parliament — and 
because  they  could  not  make  bullets  of  the  marble :  but  some 
of  our  wild  boys  took  his  head  off  one  night — by  way  of  hint 
to  those  who  encourage  rebellion.  Ha  !  this,  sirr,  is  Kennedy's 
house,  the  head  quarters  of  Sir  William,  Sir  Henry,  and  Sir 
Guy,  his  majesty's  commanders-in-chief,  now  rebuilt  and  en 
larged  to  receive  a  Yankee  broker !  Yes,  sirr,  this  corner 
house  was  the  British  head  quarters,  and  opposite  rose  majesti 
cally  Fort  George,  surmounted  with  the  floating  banner  of 
England,  surrounded  by  her  invincible  fleets  and  armies,  over 
looking  land  and  water — the  town,  the  battery  and  the  bay — but 
the  democrats  have  levelled  it — the  hill  is  removed  by  the  faith 
less,  and  the  natural  defence  of  the  city  prostrated  by  the 
foolish." 

"  Perhaps  they  think  its  defence  is  in  its  men." 
"And  now,  sirr,  they  are  building  yon  stone  Frenchified 
things !    castles !   things  that  one  of  our  seventy-fours  would 
batter  down  in  an  hour." 


Ji  scene  in  the  Park,  and  a  walk  on  the  Batt&*y.          19 

"  Provided  no  guns  were  mounted  on,  or  fired  from  them." 
"  Guns  or  no  guns,  sirr  !  Guns  or  no  guns  !  " 
They  had  now  entered  within  the  fence  (then  of  wooden 
pales)  which  separated  our  magnificent  public  walk,  still  called 
the  Battery,  from  the  street  which  occupies  part  of  the  former 
site  of  Fort  George,  and  is  called  State-street ;  and  now  the 
view  of  the  spacious  bay,  with  its  islands,  the  rich  and  beautiful 
shores  of  the  neighbouring  state  of  New  Jersey,  the  hills  of 
Staten  Island,  and  the  meadows  and  groves  of  that  part  of 
Long  Island  which  with  the  sister  isle  forms  the  outlet  to  the 
Atlantic  and  the  inlet  to  all  the  commerce  of  the  world,  burst 
upon  the  view. 

The  hero  of  the  mimic  scene,  looked  around  him  on  the 
realities  of  the  present^  and  was  for  a  moment  silent :  but  soon 
he  began  again,  taking  a  new  hint  from  the  prospect  which 
opened  upon  him,  and  seeming  to  inhale  additional  animation 
from  the  pure  sea  breezes  which  swept  over  the  waters,,  pour 
ing  health  upon  the  busy  multitudes  he  had  left  behind  him. 
"  My  young  friend  "  said  he,  "  I  never  walk  here,  and  look  on 
these  rivers,  this  bay  and  those  shores,  but  I  think  over  the  days 
of  my  youth.  I  traverse  again  in  triumph  those  heights."  And 
he  pointed  to  Long  Island.  "  I  marched  proudly,  driving 
before  me  the  rebels  with  their  Washington  and  their  Lord  Ster 
ling  (not  a  sterling  Lord)  until  the  night  saved  them  from  utter 
annihilation.  It  was  the  twenty-fifth  of  August  when  they  ffed 
before  us  to  their  lines  in  Brooklyn.  I  must  give  Washington 
credit  for  bringing  them  off  that  night.  Yes,  he  made  a  skill 
ful  retreat,  and  did  all  that  man — a  Yankee  man — could  do  with 
such  troops.  These  Yankees,  with  all  their  self-conceit,  are  a 
poor  race,  sirr,  a  degenerate  race  in  every  thing." 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Cooke  "  said  Spiffard  with  an  affected  simpli 
city,  "  that  it  was  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  August  you  said,  seven 
teen  hundred  and  seventy-six,  that  Washington  fled  with  his 
army  of  raggamuffins  before  the  disciplined  veterans  of 
Britain  ?" 

"  Aye,  sirr  !  the  twenty-fifth !  the  twenty-fifth !  " 
"  And  on  the  twenty-fifth — "  "  Spiffard  was  interrupted  by 
the  exulting  repetition  of  the  words,.  "  Ay,  sirr !  the  twenty- 
fifth  !  "  But  the  Yankee  proceeded  deliberately,  "  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  November,  seventeen  hundred  and  eighty-three,  these 
same  Yankees,  led  by  this  same  Washington,  marched  into  this 
same  city  not  leading  a  rabble  of  raggamuffins  but  a  few  regi 
ments  of  well  dressed,  well  equipped,  well  disciplined  Yankee 
soldiers ;  and  was  welcomed  by  the  grateful  inhabitants  as  their 


20         A  scene  in  the  Park,  and  a  icalk  on  the  Battery. 

benefactor  and  Saviour !  while  his  Britannic  majesty's  fleet, 
men-of-war,  transports  and  all,  were  seen  from  this  same  spot, 
wafting  his  crest-fallen  warriors  back  to  their  native  shores." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Cooke,  with  one  of  his  arch  looks, 
"  we  will  say  nothing  of  that." 

This  day,  ever  to  be  commemorated  not  only  by  New- York, 
but  by  America,  as  the  last  day  their  soil  was  polluted  by  an 
enemy  during  the  war  of  the  revolution  ;  this  memorable  twenty- 
fifth  of  November,  1783,  was  witnessed  as  a  scene  of  triumph 
by  the  writer  of  these  memoirs  ;  and  the  words  put  into  the  mouth 
of  SpifFard,  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  him  as  the  result  of  tra 
dition,  may  be  received  by  the  reader  as  the  testimony  of  an  eye 
witness. 

After  a  pause  Cooke  added,  "  You  spoke  the  latter  part  of 
that  last  sentence,  in  a  tone  that  would  almost  induce  me  to 
think  you  an  American,  but  that  you  are  too  short  and  too  clever 
for  a  Yankee.  It  is  odd,  sirr,  that  they  have  never  produced 
one  good  actor.  How  long  is  it  since  you  came  to  this  coun 
try  ?  " 

"  Five  and  twenty  years." 

"  Then  you  must  have  come  when  you  were  six  months  old 
or  less." 

"  Less,  sir.  Not  an  hour  old.  I  am  guilty  of  being  born  in 
Yankee  land." 

"  So,  so,  so !  and  I  have  been  be-rating  the  country,  and  the 
people,  to  a — a — " 

"  A  Yankee  actor,"  said  Spiffard  laughing. 

"  A  sterling  actor,"  said  the  veteran  in  his  best  manner, 
"  come  you  when  or  whence  you  will."  The  chain  of  romance 
and  rhodomontade  seemed  broken,  and  with  a  pleasant  smile 
the  old  man  said,  "  I  have  been  fairly  caught,  I  must  confess. 
But  I  like  you  none  the  worse  for  being  a  native  of  the  land  of 
pumpkins  and  puritans.  You  must  let  me  have  my  fling  at  you, 
especially  as  you  know,  let  who  will  laugh,  or  who  will  rail, 
you  Yankees  have  won  the  game." 

Thus  chatting,  and  somewhat  recovered  from  the  effects  of 
reading  the  English  newspapers  with  the  bar-keeper  of  the 
tavern,  the  veteran  was  accompanied  by  the  young  comedian  to 
his  lodgings,  who  with  difficulty  excused  himself  from  entering 
to  share  in  the  rich  profusion  of  Jemmy  Bryden's  board  at  the 
Tontine  Coffee  House. 

When  alone,  Spiffard  again  fell  into  mournful  ruminations  on 
his  rueful  condition.  "  If  the  suspicions  which  my  volatile 
companions  have  raised  should  prove  to  be  founded  on  fact."  At 
one  moment  he  strove  against  the  thought  that  tortured  him, 


Heroines  on  and  off  the  stage.  21 

and  the  next  gave  way  to  his  fears.  "  These  fellows  are  quiz 
zing  me.  They  are  always  at  their  hoaxing  sport — sport  to 
them  ! — but  then  how  should  they  know  that  I  am  married  to 
her  ?  I  boarded  in  the  house  before.  It  is  but  two  weeks — and 
no  one  in  the  house  knows  it  but  Mrs.  Epsom,  not  even  her 
cousin  Emma — no,  no,  there  is  a  foundation  for  this  insinuation. 
I  remember  now  a  thousand  circumstances  in  confirmation. 
But  then  she  has  a  mind  so  far  above  the  ordinary  class  of 
women.  Her  sentiments  are  elevated.  The  whole  tenor  of 
her  reading  and  conversation  is  masculine  and  philosophic. 
True,  her  passions  are  remarkably  strong,  and  she  may  have 
followed  the  example  of  her  former  husband  whom  she  loved 
to  excess — she  may  have — but  that  she  now  loves  me  I  cannot 
doubt,  and  with  her  good  qualities  and  superior  mind  what  have 
I  to  fear?" 

So  soliloquizing  our  hero  strode  up  Wall-street  to  Broadway, 
and  on  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Epsom,  his  mother-in-law,  having 
in  a  good  degree  tranquilized  his  mind,  and  being  determined 
neither  to  do  nor  say  any  thing  which  might  interrupt  his  do 
mestic  felicity;  unless  it  should  be  disturbed  by  the  public 
avowal  of  his  change  of  state,  and  the  annunciation  in  papers 
and  bills  of  his  wife's  change  of  name,  which  had  become  ne 
cessary  after  the  scene  in  the  Park* 


CHAPTER  II. 

Heroines  on  and  off  the  stage. 

"Have  you  the  lion's  part  written']  pray  you,  if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am 
slow  of  study." — Shakspeare. 

"  Study  is  still  the  cant  term  used  in  the  theatre  forgetting  any  nonsense 
by  rote."— Stevens. 

"  Bottom  discovers  a  true  genius  for  the  stage  by  his  solicitude  for  pro 
priety  of  dress,  and  his  deliberation  which  beard  to  choose  among  many 
beards,  all  unnatural." — Johnson. 

"  I  will  draw  you  a  bill  of  properties,  such  as  our  play  wants."— Shaks. 


"A  cue 

serves  as 


ia    stage  cant  is  the  last  words  of  the  preceding  speech,  and 
a  hint  to.  him.  who  is  to  speak  next." — Stevens. 

BEFORE   Zeb  appears  again  or  undertakes  to  make  known 
his  purpose  or  rather  his-  change  of  resolution,  we  wiH  introduce 

2* 


22  Heroines  on  and  off  the  stage. 

the  reader  to  the  family  circle  at  Mrs.  Epsom's.  Mrs.  Trow- 
bridge  (we  will  call  her  so  for  the  present)  had  just  returned 
from  rehearsal  (Cooke  having  absconded  before  his  time,  leav 
ing  the  prompter  to  read  Penruddock)  and  was  busied  in  select 
ing  and  preparing  the  dress  and  properties  she  intended  for  the 
character  of  the  evening.  Mrs.  Epsom  sailed  majestically 
about  the  house*  occasionally  visiting  the  kitchen  to  see  that 
Rachel  the  black  girl  executed  her  orders,  then  with  dignified 
pace  and  action  taking  her  seat  by  the  parlour  window,  and  after 
an  abundant  administration  of  snuff  to  her  capacious  nostrils, 
resuming  her  spectacles  and  her  occupation  of  sewing.  A  book 
was  open  on  the  chair  beside  her  :  whether  on  morality  or  reli 
gion  the  reader  must  determine  when  he  has  perused  to  the  end 
of  this  history.  We  rather  think  it  was  deposited  there  for 
what  in  playhouse  technicalities  is  called  study. 

Mrs.  Trowbridge,  or  Mrs.  Spiffard,  as  the  reader  pleases,  was 
a  vigorous  square  built  woman  of  the  largest  English  model ;  not 
only  broad  in  frame  but  tall,  and  appearing  still  more  so  by 
the  side  of  her  Zebediah,  who  although  a  native  of  Vermont, 
it  may  be  remembered  was  the  very  reverse  of  the  long  lank 
Yankee  of  the  novelist  and  story-teller,  or  the  towering  and 
manly  form  of  the  real  Vermonter  ;  and  she  appeared  the  taller 
as  she  never  lost  an  inch  of  her  height  by  stooping,  having  a 
true  tragedy  elevation  of  head  and  a  commanding  carriage  of  the 
neck  and  shoulders.  Her  swan-like  neck  rose  proudly  from 
her  chest,  giving  an  air  of  pride  as  well  as  grace  to  the 
movements  of  the  head,,  whose  ornament  was  hair  that  in  luxu 
riance  and  colour  was  truly  Asiatic.  Her  arms  were  full, 
plump,  white  and  terminated  by  small  graceful  hands.  Her 
feet  were  rather  large  ;  they  were  decidedly  not  American.  Her 
face  was  very  remote  from  the  painter's  or  sculptor's  standard 
of  beauty  ;  yet  might  be  called  fine  ;  complexion,  a  light  brunette, 
but  in  spots  rather  ruddy.  Forehead  good,  high,  broad,  white — 
strongly  marked  black  eyebrows,,  which,,  with  black  eyes,  and 
hair  falling  in  masses  of  raven  hue,  gave  powerful  effect  to  the 
poet's  passions,  and  sometimes  to  her  own.  She  had  a  promi 
nent  full  nose — red  lips,  somewhat  thick,  the  upper  one  having 
rather  a  scornful  curl  towards  its  neighbour  the  impending  nose, 
— when  separated  they  displayed  brilliant  teeth — this  congrega 
tion  of  features  was  finished  by  a  square  prominent  chin,  and 
the  whole  visage  was  slightly  marked  by  disappointment.  The 
aggregate  gave  indications  of  strong  intellect,  and,  to  the 
close  observer,  ungoverned  passions. 

Her  mother,  who  played  the  tragedy,  or  serious,  old  women 


Heroines  on  and  off  the  stage.  23 

of  the  Drama  occasionally,  was  tall  and  thin,  with  a  cream- 
coloured  face,  except  the  nose  which  was  red,  sharp,  short  and 
puggish — thin  lips,  the  upper  one  of  which  (as  well  as  her  nose) 
was  always  discoloured  with  snuff — her  whole  physiognomy 
hypocritical — and  in  her  air  was  seen  that  mock  dignity,  and 
that  swimming  and  sailing  manner  already  mentioned. 

At  the  other  window,  so  retired  as  that  the  light  should  fall  on 
her  work  and  not  on  her  face,  sat  Emma  Portland.  She  was 
intently  employed  in  sewing ;  and  her  eyes  being  cast  down  in 
the  direction  of  her  needle,  caused  the  long,  dark,  auburn  lashes 
to  be  more  apparent  as  contrasted  with  the  brilliant  white  of  her 
skin  :  they  were  relieved  like  the  delicate  touches  of  the  pencil  on 
a  ground  of  snowy  purity.  When  the  fringed  curtains  of  her 
eyes  were  raised,  their  azure  tint  and  softness  of  expression 
caused  fascination — not  the  fascination  of  the  enchantress,  but 
a  holy  attraction  inspiring  admirationr  divested  of  all  impurity, 
except  when  the  beholder  was  impure.  Complexion  is  evanes 
cent — yet  transparency  and  bloom  add  to  the  charms  of  form 
and  expression.  The  most  delicate  tint  of  the  damask  rose- 
leaf  did  not  equal  the  colour  of  this  maiden's  cheek.  She  ap 
peared  by  the  purity  and  simplicity  of  her  dress,  the  placidity  of 
her  countenance,,  the  slender  symmetry  of  her  justly  proportioned 
form,  and  the  graceful  movement  accompanying  this  common 
domestic  occupation,  to  contrast  strongly  with  the  majestic 
figure  of  one,  and  the  worldly  appearance  of  the  other  of  her 
companions. 

Emma  was  not  yet  eighteen,  and  looked  two  years  younger 
when  not  speaking.  When  she  spoker  a  mind  of  maturity  indi 
cating  many  years  appeared  in  the  unveiled  mirror  of  her  soul — 
her  face — which  beamed  with  intelligence  and  intellectual 
beauty.  Nor  did  her  words  belie  her  lovely  countenance,  or  in 
the  least  disappoint  the  expectation  which  her  all-expressive 
physiognomy  had  raised.  Purity  and  truth — piety  and  love 
(heavenly  love)  were  written  on  her  countenance.  Of  her  form 
and  face  it  might  be  said  with  the  poet, 

"There  is  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  such  a  temple." 
Her  voice  was 


musical 


As  bright  Apollo's  harp  strung  with  his  hair, 
Or  that  of  Orpheus,  strung  with  poet's  sinews." 

A  spotless  white  morning  dress  covered  her  person  from  the 
feet  to  the  chin.     There  was  no  studied  art  to  display  form,  or 


24  Heroines  on  and  off  the  stage. 

coquettishly  to  conceal  it ;  but  the  perfection  of  female  loveliness 
was  seen  in  every  movement  and  in  every  limb.  Her  hair  was 
auburn,  fine  and  glossy  as  the  richest  silk  ;  modestly  braided, 
it  formed  a  natural  crown  copeing  her  maiden  brow  ;  that  por 
tion  which  impinged  upon  the  ivory  of  her  forehead,  was  parted 
in  the  midst,  and  in  ringlets  hung  clustering  on  either  side, 
shading  the  blue  veins  of  her  temples,  and  sometimes  as  they 
waved,  adding  golden  tinted  shadows  to  the  rich  hues  near  them. 
Her  face  approached  the  oval  in  its  form,  with  a  portion  of 
girlish  roundncssf  which  only  added  to  its  innocent  expression 
wheny  as  now,  perfectly  tranquil,  and  which  expression  of  ex 
treme  youth  was  heightened  by  the  glowing  colour  of  her  cheeks 
and  lips.  These  lips  were  as  usual  two,  and  as  the  old  poet 
says, 

"  The  one  was  thin, 
Compared  with  that  was  next  her  chin." 

Yet  both  were  full,  exquisitely  curved  and  rounded,  and  parted 
by  a  line  more  resembling  the  bow  of  Cupid  when  unbent, 
than  any  thing  merely  mortal ;  within  this  mouth,  the  rows  of 
brilliant,  pearly  teeth,  were  in  unison  with  the  honied  breath  and 
honied  words  which  flowed  from  the  healthful  frame  and  health 
ful  mind  of  this  matchless  maiden.  With  this  beauty  she  pos 
sessed  a  higher,  holier  loveliness ;  proceeding  from  within.  In 
her  eyes  you  beheld  the  pure  soul  which  never  knew  or  thought 
deceit — the  charm  of  truth  was  spread  over  her  countenance, 
but  it  shone  in  her  eyes.  She  had  read  and  heard  of  falsehood 
and  arts  of  deceit,  but  they  were  theories  with  her — she  confided 
in  every  one,,  because  she  felt  her  own  sincerity  and  heretofore 
had  no  experience  of  the  lack  of  it  in  others.  She  confided  in 
all,  and  all  confided  in  her.  How  could  they  avoid'  it  ]  Truth 
was  an  innate  and  a  practical  virtue,  which  had  such  power  in 
her  voice  that  no  human  creature  could  doubt  an  assertion  from 
her  lips.  She  possessed  another  virtue- — Charity.  Charity  in 
its  widest  sense — in  its  theory  and  practice.  She  thought 
charitably  of  all,  and  she  acted  charitably  to  all.  She  could 
not  give  money,  or  food,  or  clothing  to  the  poor,  but  rarely  and 
scantily :  she  could  not  send  fuel  to  the  cold,  and  sick,  and 
shivering  :  but  she  did  more — she  sought  their  abodes  and 
cheered  them  with  looks  and  words.  She  pointed  out  their 
cheerless  dwellings  to  those  who  could  supply  their  physical 
wants  and  alleviate  their  sufferings. 

How  came  such  a  creature  in  such  a  place  and  in  such  com 
pany  ?    We  will  tell  the  reader  in  few  words. 


Heroines  on  and  off  the  stage.  25 

The  father  of  Emma  Portland  left  England,  his  native 
land,  and  took  refuge  in  America,  after  the  destruction  of 
his  family  by  the  elopement  of  his  sister  with  a  worthless 
strolling  player  of  the  name  of  Epsom.  This  sister,  though 
now  such  as  we  have  seen  her  had  then  a  showy  kind  of  so-called 
beauty,  was  vain,  and  thought  it  would  be  a  charming  thing  to 
receive  the  plaudits  of  the  theatre — to  be  admired  by  hundreds, 
to  stand  aloft  and  dazzle  thousands,  and  to  be  the  wife  of  the 
tall,  handsome,  tragic  actor,  Mr.  Adolphus  Epsom.  She  was 
an  only  daughter,  and  her  conduct  killed  first  her  father  and  sub 
sequently  her  mother.  Her  brother,  a  well  disposed  young  man, 
but  with  no  extraordinary  talents  or  acquirements,  sought  a  home 
in  Philadelphia,  prospered  in  commerce,  married  one  of  the 
loveliest  and  best  of  women,  and  was  blest  by  her  perfections 
mental  and  physical — and  more  by  the  good  conduct  of  a  son 
and  daughter,  Thomas  and  Emma  ;  so  named  from  himself 
and  wife.  The  children  inherited  the  talents  of  the  mother,  and 
imbibed  from  her  an  ardent  love  of  truth:  the  foundation  of 
every  virtue. 

Emma  had  in  infancy  the  inestimable  advantage  of  the  ex 
ample  and  instruction  of  an  enlightened  and  good  mother  ;  and 
as  her  mind  expanded,  her  beloved  brother,  some  years  older 
than  herself,  and  devoted  to  science  and  literature,  became  her 
chosen  companion,  and  instructor.  Thus  with  every  advantage 
which  wealth,  science,  virtue  and  piety  could  surround  her,  she 
attained  her  fifteenth  year.  Then  came  a  sad  reverse.  The 
father,  heretofore  a  princely  merchant,  failed — sunk  under  the 
shock  and  died.  The  mother  bowed  her  head  to  God,  and  rose 
higher  and  firmer  from  the  conviction  that  to  do  his  will  was  her 
duty  and  her  happiness ;  that  his  will  is  the  happiness  of  his  crea 
tures  ;  and  that  her  duty  was  to  make  her  children  and  herself  use 
ful  in  the  great  work  of  promoting  happiness.  The  brother  and 
mother  sought  and  found  employment.  Their  sister  and  daugh 
ter  cheered  their  labours  and  cheerfully  added  her  own.  Soon 
a  lingering  and  cruel  disease,  the  consumption,  the  conse 
quence,  perhaps,  of  too  severe  study,  was  apparent  in  the 
flushed  cheek  arid  enfeebled  frame  of  the  brother.  The 
mother  seemed  to  melt  away  as  her  first  born  withered,  as  it  is 
fabled  that  the  victim  of  malignity  sinks  with  the  melting  of  the 
charm-fraught  image  moulded  by  the  hand  of  accursed  sorcery. 
Both  died — resigned  to  the  will  of  him  who  had  given  life  and 
much  happiness — thankful  for  the  past  and  confiding  in  the 
future  ;  they  died — first  the  brother,  then  the  mother,  and  left  the 
orphan  Emma — not  alone  and  unprotected,  for  in  our  country 


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28  Heroines  on  and  off  the  Stage. 

more  than  ever  enjoyed,  as  all  studies  are  in  proportion  to  the 
progress  made  in  them,  and  the  consciousness  of  intellectual 
power  thereby  gained.  She  had  no  fastidious  notions  respecting 
the  Drama.  She  had  read  plays,  English  and  French,  selected 
by  her  brother.  She  saw  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the  effect  of 
a  good  poem  in  .prose  or  verse  would  be  lessened  by  the  just 
representation  of  its  characters,  and  powerful  delivery  of  its 
moral  sentiments.  She  had  seen  with  the  delight  incident  to 
inexperienced  youth  the  charms  of  scenic  representation ;  and 
although,  since  her  residence  with  her  aunt  Epsom,  her  feelings 
toward  the  theatre  had  undergone  a  change,  still  her  only  mo 
tive  on  this  occasion,  was  the  preference  given  to  retirement  and 
the  pursuit  of  a  study  she  had  commenced. 

It  is  known,  without  our  aid,  to  some  of  our  readers,  that  the 
dressing  rooms  of  the  Park  Theatre,  are  over  the  green-room, 
or  room  for  the  assembling  of  performers  when  ready  to  obey 
the  prompter's  summons  to  the  stage.  The  passage  leading  to 
these  rooms,  and  to  the  stage,  opened  in  a  darksome  dirty  street 
called  Theatre  Alley ;  since  that  time,  like  many  other  things, 
reformed.  The  first  floor  of  the  building,  which  is  an  adjunct  to 
the  theatre  proper,  was  occupied  by  the  aforesaid  green-room, 
and  the  passage  way  from  the  street  or  alley  to  it,  to  the  stage, 
and  to  the  stair-case  leading  to  the  dressing  rooms.  The  second 
floor  was  divided  into  three  apartments,  one  of  which  was  at  this 
time  appropriated  to  Mr.  Cooke,  and  the  others  to  some  of  the 
principal  male  performers  of  the  company,  none  of  whom  hap 
pened  to  play  on  the  evening  of  which  we  speak,  nor  were  their 
usual  occupants  in  the  house.  The  third  floor  had  likewise 
three  dressing  rooms,  one  of  which  was  occupied  by  Mrs.  Ep 
som  and  her  daughter,  a  second  accommodated  Mr.  Spiffard  and 
another  comedian,  and  the  third  was  similarly  used  by  others  of 
the  company.  Above  this  again  were  other  tiring  rooms,  better 
filled,  at  least  in  quantity,  (the  persons  of  lesser  weight  in  this 
community,  as  in  other  places,  rising  nearer  the  clouds,  as  poets 
and  painters  mount  to  garrets,) — and  still  higher  were  apart 
ments  for  tailors,  supernumeraries  and  trumpery,  all  called  ward 
robe.  Each  landing  on  the  staircase  was  lighted  usually  by  a 
lamp,  but  as  Emma  ascended  with  her  aunt  and  cousin,  it  being 
yet  twilight,  she  had  not  noticed  whether  the  lamp  was  burning 
or  not. 

As  she  now  descended  to  the  floor  on  which  the  dressing 
room  of  George  Frederick  Cooke  was  situated,  she  found  her 
self  involved  in  darkness,  and  it  appeared  to  her  that  the  lamp 
had  been  extinguished  at  the  moment  she  opened  the  door  of 


Heroines  on  and  off  the  stag*.  29 

the  apartment  from  which  she  issued.  With  the  confidence  of 
innocence,  and  that  courage  given  by  a  just  appreciation  of  her 
own  character,  she  kept  on  her  way,  darkling  ;  but  as  she  pass 
ed  the  last  dressing  room  she  was  suddenly  arrested,  and  felt 
herself  seized  round  the  waist,  by  the  strong  grasp  of  a  man's 
arm,  and  forcibly  drawn  towards  the  door.  She  struggled  to 
return  to  the  stairs  whence  she  came — and  in  her  struggles  con 
fusedly  heard  the  words  murmured,  "  lovely  girl — I  will  make 
your  fortune — I  love  you — no  harm — "  and  a  rude  kiss  was  at 
tempted  upon  her  averted  face. 

"  Help  !  Aunt !  Cousin  !  Cousin  Trowbridge,"  cried  the 
struggling  maid,  "  Monster  !  Ruffian  !  Help  !  Help  !" 

A  door  opened,  and  a  figure  in  a  dressing  gown  appeared  in  the 
doorway.  This  person,  finding  the  landing  and  stairs  in 
darkness,  turned  back  into  the  room,  snatched  a  light  and  rush 
ed  out.  The  arm  which  had  seized  Emma  was  suddenly  with 
drawn,  the  ruffian  had  vanished,  and  she  sunk  on  the  lower  step 
of  the  stairs  she  had  just  descended,  faintly  crying  "  Help." 

Thus  before  she  could  see  the  satyr  who  had  assailed  her,  ex 
cept  by  the  faint  and  impeded  light  from  the  door  that  had  been 
thrown  open,  some  rays  of  which  fell  on  a  face  unknown  to  her, 
she  was  left  alone,  sitting  on  the  stairs  leading  to  her  aunt's 
dressing  room — leaning  with  one  arm  on  the  step  above  that  on 
which  she  was  seated,  and  with  the  other  outstretched  in  search 
of  her  bonnet — in  that  attitude — her  bonnet  off — her  face,  neck 
and  shoulders  almost  covered  by  the  profusion  of  her  golden 
ringlets — in  this  state  of  apparent  helplessness  was  she  found 
by  George  Frederick  Cooke. 

The  veteran  had  been  preparing  for  the  ensuing  scene,  under 
the  hands  of  his  hair-dresser,  Dennis  O'Dogherty ;  and  attend 
ed  by  his  servant,  or,  as  he  called  himself,  his  valet  de  sham, 
Trustworthy  Davenport  (the  first  an  honest  hibernian,  and  the 
second  a  thorough  going  yankee,)  and  hearing  a  female  voice 
cry  for  help,  George  Frederick  rushed  to  the  rescue  with  all  the 
promptitude  of  a  preux  chevalier,  and  stood  in  an  attitude  of 
unfeigned  amazement  at  the  apparition  of  such  a  lovely  creature 
so  strangely  situated  ;  lovely  he  could  now  see  that  she  was,  for 
a  blaze  of  light  fell  strong  and  full  upon  her,  from  the  candle  he 
had  seized,  and  from  another  borne  aloft  by  the  tall  yankee,  his 
valet. 

"  This  way,  O'Dogherty  ! — Here,  Davenport ! — My  dear 
young  lady,  have  you  fallen  ? — Are  you  hurt  1 — Let  me  assist 
you  !  Are  you  hurt  ?" 

"  No  sir.     I  am  not  hurt.     Some  ruffian  assailed  me.     Hp 
3 


30  Heroines  on  and  off  the  stage. 

must  have  gone  into  that  room,  I  think — or  perhaps  down  stairs." 

"  That  door  ?  Ha ! — O'Dogherty  ! — Davenport ! — that  door 
— I  beg  your  pardon,  Madam.  Bring  a  glass  of  wine,  O'Dogh 
erty  ! — and  Davenport,  see  who  is  in  that  room — the  door  is 
open." 

"  And  there  is  no  speck  of  light,"  said  Trusty,  as  he  obeyed. 

"  You  are  faint,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  Let  me 
assist  you  into  this  room — and  there  you  can  sit  down  until  you 
recover  yourself.  For  Emma  was  now  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  near  the  tragedian's  open  door. 

"  Oh  no  sir,  no,  no,  I  am  well  now ;"  and  the  trembling  girl, 
hastily  adjusting  her  long  and  dishevelled  tresses  under  her 
bonnet,  attempted  to  ascend  the  stairs,  but  suddenly  recollecting 
that  to  her  aunt  and  cousin,  as  then  engaged,  the  knowledge  of 
her  adventure  would  prove  unseasonable  and  annoying,  and  that 
it  might  prevent  Mrs.  Trowbridge's  exertions  as  an  actress,  at 
the  same  time  wondering  that  her  cries  had  not  brought  those 
ladies  down  (but  in  truth  they  had  not  heard  her  faint  and  stifled 
calls  for  help)  she  concluded  to  leave  them  in  ignorance  for  the 
present. 

Davenport  returned  from  his  search  with  the  report  that  no 
one  was  to  be  found. 

Emma,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation,  re-assumed  her  inten 
tion  of  going  home,  and  was  proceeding  down  stairs  to  the  lower 
floor,  after  thanking  the  old  gentleman  for  his  assistance  and 
kind  offers. 

"  Where  would  you  go,  young  lady  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Home,  sir." 

«  Alone  ! " 

"  There  is  no  danger,  sir." 

"  I  think  there  is." 

"  None,  sir,  after  leaving  this  house." 

"  Indeed,  miss,"  said  Dennis  O'Dogherty,  who  stood  holding 
a  decanter  of  Madeira  in  one  hand,  and  a  full  glass  in  the  other. 
"  There  are  more  bad  houses  in  this  alley." 

"  What  sirr  !  "  said  Cooke,  "  do  you  make  a  bad  house  of 
the  theatre  1  " 

"  Not  I,  sir,  but  among  us  I  think  it  will  get  its  name  up.  I 
only  mane  that  there  are  others  in  the  alley,  though  this  is  the 
biggest." 

"  Mr.  O'Dogherty,"  said  the  Yankee,  "  you  are  mending  the 
matter  clean  with  a  plaster  of  rnud." 

"  Hold  your  tongues,  sirrs !"  said  Cooke.  "  How  far  are  you 
going,  young  lady  ?" 


Heroines  on  and  off  the  stage.  31 

*«  Only  to  Mrs.  Epsom's,  sir." 

"  My  coat !  Davenport !  I  dont  go  on  till  the  second  act. 
O'Dogherty,  my  hat !  Young  lady,  you  must  not  go  through 
that  dark  alley  alone.  I  am  George  Frederick  Cooke,  madam ; 
and  though  my  grey  hairs — if  I  hadn't  this  black  wig  on — might 
be  assurance  enough  for  your  security,  we  will  have  Dennis 
with  us,  who  knows  the  alley  so  well,  and  Davenport  shall  carry 
a  Ian  thorn  before  us." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  have  no  fears,  when  out  of  this  house." 

"  The  house  has  its  traps,  sure  enough,  miss  ;  and  there  are 
some  who  make  the  sight  of  an  unprotected  beauty  a  cue  to 
their  licentiousness  ;  but  pardon  me,  the  night  is  growing  dark, 
and  such  a  figure  as  yours  flitting  through  Theatre-alley  might 
attract  a  ruffian,  and  occasion  an  insult  even  out  of  the  theatre. 
So  you  must  permit — therefore,  pardon  me,  I  will  see  you  home. 
Give  me  that  glass  of  wine,  O'Dogherty,  and  take  care  of  the 
bottle  ;  and  do  you,  Trusty,  take  the  lanthorn."  Having  tossed 
off  the  bumper,  he  proceeded.  "  I  will  see  you  safe  home  by  the 
light  of  Dennis's  face  and  Trustworthy's  lanthorn.  And  as  I 
shall  be  supporting  you,  and  Davenport  carrying  the  light  before 
us,  that  Hibernian  shall  follow  as  a  rear  guard.  Come  along, 
Davenport,  and  take  your  cudgel  with  you,  Dennis  !  " 

Emma  could  no  longer  decline  the  aid  so  frankly  offered  ; 
and  supported  by  the  arm  of  the  veteran,  lighted  by  his  trusty 
valet,  and  guarded  by  the  red-faced  Irishman,  they  descended 
the  stairs,  at  the  bottom  of  which  they  found  the  old  porter. 

"  Did  any  one  pass  out  within  a  few  minutes  1 "  said  Cooke. 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  gentleman  in  a  great  hurry." 

"  Who  was  he  1" 

"  I  dont  know,  sir  ?" 

"  You  must  know  all  the  performers  ?" 

"  He  was  not  a  performer  I'm  sure  sir." 

"  Then  what  business  had  he  here  ?" 

"  He  did  not  come  in  this  way  since  I  came  from  my  supper, 
and  as  he  looked  like  a  gentleman,  I  let  him  pass  without  asking 
questions.  He  was  wrapp'd  in  a  cloak,  and  his  face  partly 
covered." 

"  Some  young  scape-grace,"  ejaculated  Cooke,  as  they  passed 
out. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  porter,  "  he  was  not  young,  that  I  know 
by  the  way  he  came  down  the  stairs.  He  was  none  of  your 
hop-skip-and-jump  fellows." 

Emma  reached  her  aunt's  house  in  safety ;  receiving  all  the 
delicate  attentions  which  a  man  of  sense  and  feeling  would  be- 


32  Heroines  on  and  off  the  stage. 

stow  upon  a  young  female  in  her  situation  ;  for  it  happened  that 
Mr.  Cooke  was  at  this  time  such  as  nature  had  qualified  him  for 
being  at  all  times. 

When  they  stopped  at  the  door,  Emma,  having  thoroughly 
recovered  her  self-possession,  said,  "  I  will  not  ask  you  in,  sir. 
I  know  your  engagements.  My  aunt  will  add  her  thanks  to 
mine,  for  your  politeness,  at  some  other  time.  I  hope  you 
will  call  upon  her,  she  is  not  now  at  home.  The  thanks  and 
blessings  of  the  orphan  are  with  you,  sir."  Then  suddenly 
bending  her  head,  under  the  impulse  of  excited  feelings,  she 
pressed  her  lips  upon  the  hand  which  had  assisted  her,  he  felt  a 
warm  tear  drop,  and  she  hastily  left  him. 

Cooke,  and  his  two  attendants,  turned  to  retrace  their  way  to 
the  theatre,  and  they  had  walked  in  silence  for  a  minute  or 
two,  when  the  hero  of  the  buskin  ejaculated  the  single  word, 
"  strange  !"  He  drew  out  his  handkerchief,  and,  rubbing  his 
eyes,  said,  "  Who  is  this  beautiful  creature,  Dennis  ?" 

"  Sure  and  she  is  beautiful,  sir,"  said  Dennis. 

"  I  know  that,  you  blockhead  ;  but  ivho  is  she  ?" 

"  Sure,  Mister  Cooke,  you  wouldn't  call  me  a  blockhead  for 
not  knowing  all  the  beautiful  creatures.  And,  indeed,  Mr. 
Cooke,  and  I  think  she  is  none  of  the  company,  or  she  would 
not  have  minded  a  little  affair  of  that  sort — quite  so  much." 

"  Get  out,  you  blackguard,  do  you  know  what  you  are  say 
ing?" 

"  Mr.  Dog-hearty,"  said  Davenport,  "  means  the  present 
company." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Dennis,  "  that's  what  I  mean ;  the  present 
company  always  excepted." 

"  He  don't  know  what  he  means,"  said  Cooke. 

"  Fai't,  and  I  do,  sir,  without  maining  any  disrespect  to  your 
self,  Mr.  Cooke,  or  any  of  the  other  ladies  of  the  stage,  past, 
present,  or  to  come." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir !" 

il  And  I  can  do  that ;  and  what  the  more  will  you  know  if 
idol" 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  her  before,  Davenport?"  inquired  the 
tragedian,  turning  to  his  yankee  attendant. 

"  I  have,  be  sure,  Mr.  Cooke,"  said  the  valet  de  sham,  "  and 
noticed  her  with  considerable  admiration.  For,  to  tell  the  truth, 
which  I  always  endeavour  to  do,  modesty,  in  our  house,  shines 
like  a  candle  in  a  dark  night,  or  '  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty 
world/  as  the  poet  says.  But  I  see  her  in  another  house — at 
church ;  and  there  she  looks  like  an  inhabitant  of  the  upper  re- 


A  Renunciation r  33 

gions  :  I  don't  mean  the  gallery,  or  the  upper  tier  of  boxes.  An 
angel — a  descending  spirit,  come  to  tell  *  the  secrets  of  the 
world  unknown,'  as  Norval  says." 

This  rhapsody,  given  with  a  nasal  tone,  and  true  JVeto  Eng 
land  or  old  English  peculiarity  of  accent  and  enunciation,  tickled 
the  tragedian's  fancy,  and  turned  the  current  of  his  thoughts. 
After  good  naturedly  exclaiming,  "  Hush,  you  barbarous  mur 
derer  of  Dominie  Home !"  he  communed  with  himself  as  he 
returned  to  the  business  of  the  night ;  occasionally  a  word 
escaped  him,  such  as  "  brute" — "  beautiful" — "daughter" — but 
further  communication  with  Dennis  or  Davenport,  he  held  none. 


CHAPTER  III, 

A  Renunciation. 

"  Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good." 
"  Temperance  is  a  delicate  wench." — Shakspeare. 

MY  story  is  one  of  ordinary  life.  Its  incidents  are  such, 
mainly,  as  I  have  known  to  occur.  If  I  have  introduced  an 
Irishman  and  a  Yankee,  it  is  because  my  scene  is  in  New- York ; 
and  in  New-York  one  cannot  turn  a  corner  but  an  Irishman  is 
at  one  elbow  and  a  Yankee  at  the  other.  It  will  be  seen  by  the 
sequel  that  1  mean  no  disrespect  to  the  natives  of  the  Emerald 
Isle — I  feel  none.  Take  Pat  from  the  influence  of  bad,  or  no 
education  ;  give  him  a  fair  chance  in  the  race,  he  will  out 
strip  the  best  and  the  proudest  of  Europe  ;  and  Jonathan  is  my 
own  countryman,  only  born  further  "  down  east,"  where  I  have 
found  some  of  the  most  enlightened  heads,  and  truest  hearts, 
of  all  who  can  boast  the  name  of  **  Yankee." 

We  will  now  take  up  the  thread  of  our  story,  and  open  the 
conversation  which  was  on  the  eve  of  commencement  when  we 
dropt  the  stitch  in  our  knitting-work.  We  return  to  the  colloquy 
of  Mrs.  Epsom,  Mrs.  Spiffard,  (late  Mrs.  Trowbridge,)  and 
Emma  Portland,  which  has  been  so  long  necessarily  delayed. 

"  Emma,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Spiffard,  as  she  selected  the  dress 
she  intended  to  wear  in  the  evening  ;  "  will  you  help  me  with 
these  ruffles  1" 

3* 


34  Jl  Renunciation. 

"  Certainly,  cousin ;"  and  putting  aside  her  needle-work, 
she  crossed  the  apartment  to  receive  the  stage  ornaments. 
"Why,  these  are  old  fashioned." 

"  They  are  for  an  elderly  lady  ;  I  am  to  play  an  old  lady  to 
night  in  Cumberland's  '  Wheel  of  Fortune.'  You,  who  do  not 
read  plays,  may  not  know  that  Penruddock  is  one  of  Kemble's, 
Cooke's,  and  Cooper's  fine  parts.  As  this  is  the  first  time  of 
Mr.  Cooke's  playing  the  character  in  America,  I  am  anxious 
that  he  may  be  well  supported,  as  far  as  my  exertions  can  go 
towards  giving  support  to  his  talents." 

"  I  have  read  the  '  Wheel  of  Fortune,'  said  Emma,  "  and 
most  of  Cumberland's  plays.  My  brother" — and  a  slight  cloud 
passed  over  her  beaming  countenance  ;  "  my  brother  did  not 
prohibit  dramatic  authors,  but  he  selected  for  me.  I  once  had  a 
strong  relish  for  plays." 

w  When  you  were  young,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Epsom,  with 
a  sneering  snuffle. 

"  When  I  was — "  Emma  was  going  to  say  'happy ;'  but  de 
licacy,  and  the  consciousness  of  present  good,  checked  her. 
"  When  my — "  again  she  stopped.  "  What  shall  I  do  with  this 
ruffle,  cousin V 

Mrs.  SpifFard  gave  the  necessary  directions,  and  described 
the  dress  which  was  intended  for  the  character  of  Mrs.  Wood- 
viile,  in  the  above  named  play,  and  then  continued — "  I  don't 
think  you  ever  saw  me  personate  an  old  woman.  I  am  to  play 
a  part,  perhaps,  unsuited  to  my  figure  to-night,  and  1  hope  you 
will  go  and  see  how  I  perform,  that  I  may  have  your  opinion 
to-morrow." 

Emma  had  anticipated  the  trial  which  now  approached.  Even 
before  the  outrage  which  had  been  offered  by  the  unknown 
ruffian,  and  which  we  have  related*  she  had  felt  a  growing  reluc 
tance  to  visiting  the  private  part  of  the  theatre.  That  occur 
rence  had  determined  her  ;  and  with  due  consideration  she  had 
made  up  her  mind,  (after  consulting  a  friend  who  will  be  here 
after  introduced  to  the  reader,.)  to  avoid,  unless  some  duty 
required  her  attendance,  (some  service  not  otherwise  to  be 
performed  for  her  protectors,)  to  avoid  any  communication 
with  the  recesses  of  the  theatre.  To  introduce  the  subject  to 
her  friends,  as  they  were  situated,  was  a  difficulty  which  her 
delicate  mind  shrunk  from.  She  had  feared  to  mention  the  story 
of  the  insult  that  had  been  offered  to  her  ;  and  feared  still  more 
to  make  known  the  determination  which  had  been  its  result ; 
but  now  she  found  it  necessary  to  avow  her  resolution,,  and  as 
sign  the  cause.  Having  thus  resolved  what  her  conduct  must 


A  Renunciation.  35 

be  hereafter  in  respect  to  the  theatre,  she  answered  with  all  the 
firmness  of  a  philosopher,  but  with  all  the  gentleness  of  her  sex, 
and  peculiarly  sweet  character,  "  No  cousin,  I  hope  you  will 
excuse  me." 

"  No !  why  not  V  and  both  the  ladies  fixed  their  eyes  in  as 
tonishment  upon  her. 

"  I  hope  my  aunt,  and  you,  cousin,  will  permit  me  to  remain 
at  home  this  evening,  and  not  even  ask  ivhy?"  Again  she  felt 
unequal  to  her  task,  and  wished  to  avoid  explanation. 

"  You  may  do  as  you  please,  certainly.  But  why  not  see  the 
play?  The  Wheel  of  Fortune  is  an  unceptionable  comedy." 

"  I  have  read  it,  and  many  by  the  same  author.  Mr.  Cum 
berland  has  been  characterized  by  Goldsmith  as  '  the  Terence 
of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts  ;'  but  I  do  not  think  his  plays 
unexceptionable.  There  are  many  objectionable  passages  ;  and 
in  all  his  works  he  is  an  advocate  for  the  absurd  and  unchristian 
practice  of  duelling." 

"  O  my  Emma,  you  are  a  little  prude,"  said  Mrs.  SpifTard  ; 
and  rising,  she  took  a  seat  nearer  Emma,  accompanying  her 
words  with  a  playful  tap  on  the  cheek. 

"  I  hope  not,  Cousin,"  said  the  blushing  girL 

"  I  can't  see  what  objection  you  can  have  to  seeing  your 
cousin's  scenes,"  snuffled  Mrs.  Epsom. 

"  Will  not  my  dear  aunt  permit  me  to  remain  at  home  ?" 

"  You  grow  more  and  more  opposed  to  the  theatre,  1  think," 
was  the  reply ;  "  and  with  your  voice  and  figure,  it  is  exactly 
the  line  of  life  you  ought  to  choose,  and  I  have  told  you  so 
again  and  again." 

"  But  you  have  also  told  me,  dear  aunt,  that  you  would  have 
me  consult  my  own  happiness.  My  needle,  and  my  habits  of 
industry  place  me  above  the  dread  of  want;  and  I  have  no  am 
bition  to  display  my  voice  or  figure." 

"  And  then,"  continued  the  aunt,  "  what  an  advantage  to 
have  the  instruction  of  your  cousin  and  myself." 

"  But  Emma,"  added  Mrs.  SpifTard,  "  would  feel  herself  de 
graded  by  treading  the  stage."  This  was  said  with  some 
asperity — perhaps  from  consciousness. 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Emma,  her  beautiful  cheeks  glowing  with 
additional  colour,  u  Oh,  how  I  have  dreaded  and  wished  to 
avoid  this  subject !  But  I  find  that  in  this  as  in  every  thing 
else,  an  honest,  plain  avowal  of  the  truth,  is  the  best  mode  of 
overcoming  difficulties." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  SpifFard,  earnestly 
and  tenderly.  "I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,,  or 


36  A  Renunciation* 

reproach  you  for  differing  from  us  in  opinion.  My  education 
has  been  very  unlike  yours ;"  and  she  sighed.  "  But  you 
had  better  go  with  us — perhaps — you  will  be  very  lonely  here. 
Take  your  book,  as  you  have  before  done,  and  sit  in  our  room, 
if  you  will  not  go  in  front  and  see  the  play." 

"  Unless  for  some  very  particular  reason,  cousin,"  said  Em 
ma,  firmly,  "  I  will  never  again  enter  the  walls  of  that  theatre." 

"  Heyday  !  what  have  we  now  !"  exclaimed  the  aunt. 

Emma,  then,  with  simplicity,  related  the  insult  she  had  re 
ceived,  and  the  fright  she  had  experienced.  She  narrated  the 
occurrence,  not  as  we  have  described  it  (we,  to  whom  all  things 
are  known,)  but  as  it  appeared  to  her.  She  apologized  for  let 
ting  so  many  hours  pass  without  mentioning  the  circumstance. 
She  expressed  her  deep  feeling  of  the  insult  offered  to  her  from 
some  one  evidently  acquainted  with  the  house,  and,  as  she 
could  not  but  suppose,  feeling  at  home  in  it.  She  expressed 
strongly  her  gratitude  to  her  protector,  and  added,  "  It  is  not 
the  fear  of  personal  injury  that  has  made  me  come  to  this  reso 
lution,  but  a  sense  of  what  is  due  to  you  and  to  myself;  to 
you,  my  aunt  and  cousin,  as  protectors  of  my  orphan  state  ;  to 
myself,  as  one  depending  for  future  prosperity  and  usefulness 
on  present  conduct.  I  ought,  as  the  subject  is  now  unavoidably 
brought  into  discussion,  to  add  that  it  is  not  alone  the  event  I  have 
recounted  to  you  that  has  caused  my  determination,  but  the  im 
proper  words  I  have,  at  various  times,  been  obliged  to  hear  in 
passing  and  repassing  to  your  apartment  in  the  theatre,  and  the 
improper  conduct  I  have  been  forced  to  witness.  With  you — in 
your  company?  I  am  protected  from  insult,  and  seeT  at  least,  the 
appearance  of  decency  among  the  people  called  supernume 
raries,  and  others,.  whoy  when  unrestrained  by  the  presence  of 
their  superiors  or  employersy  are  not  governed  by  laws  or  feel 
ings  which  render  them  proper  persons  for  a  young  and  unpro 
tected  female  to  be  placed  so  near,  as  to  be  within  hearing  of 
their  jests  and  ribaldry.  You  cannot  be  always  with  me — your 
duty  calls  you  before  the  public — and  my  appearance  does  not 
command  respect  from  the  ignorant,  or  shield  my  conduct  from 
the  suspicions  or  the  censures  of  the  libertine.  My  pleasure  is 
in  retirement.  The  gay  frequenters  of  the  boxes — or  the  glit 
tering  decorations  of  the  proscenium  of  the  theatre,  give  me,  of 
late,  no  delight ;  I  am  isolated  among  the  auditors  ;  and  the 
scenes  which  appear  to  please  them,  too  often  disgust  me.  If 
such  is  my  situation  in  front  of  the  curtain,  behind  it  I  feel  that 
I  am  exposed  to  insult  except  in  your  immediate  presence. 
The  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  the  theatre  are  engaged  in  their 


A  Renunciation.  37 

respective  duties  ;  and  are,  for  the  most  part,  unknown  to  me. 
That  I  may  be  subjected  to  calumny  is  but  too  apparent,  while 
placed  so  nearly  in  contact  with  vulgar  indelicacy — not  to  say 
indecency.  I  hope  my  good  aunt  and  cousin  will  yield  to  me 
in  this,  and  not  attribute  my  refusal  to  visit  the  theatre  (except 
on  occasions  when  duty  to  them  requires)  to  false  delicacy  or 
any  improper  motive." 

Her  "  good  aunt"  sat  petrified  during  this  address.  She 
had  never  heard  any  thing  like  it  from  female  mouth  before, 
and  thought  the  girl  "possessed."  Mrs.  Spiffard's  counte 
nance  had  varied  as  Emma  spoke.  As  she  looked  at  her  ani 
mated  face,  her  own  dark  eyes  sparkled — as  she  listened  to  the 
accents  of  truth,  purity,  and  feeling,  she  thought  of  the  inno 
cence  of  childhood,  and  the  train  of  events  which  had  since 
occurred  and  changed  her  to  that  which  she  knew  herself  now 
to  be. 

When  Emma  ceased  to  speak,  her  cousin  dismissed  these 
remembrances  of  former  days  and  subsequent  events — she  felt 
as  if  she  would  willingly  be  in  union  with  the  holiness  of  the 
beautiful  object  before  her,  and  at  the  same  time  be  its  prop. 
All  her  better  self  filled  her  bosom  and  glowed  in  her  counte 
nance,  as  she  exlaimed,  "  I  will  never  ascribe  any  of  my 
Emma's  actions  to  an  improper  motive !"  and  she  kissed  the 
girl  with  enthusiasm,  while  tears  of  affection  dimmed  the  lustre 
of  her  eyes — but  the  jewel,  which  nature  has  bestowed  on  all 
her  children,  shone  with  its  native  radiance  through  those  heal 
ing  tears. 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me  this  morning,." 
said  Mrs.  Epsom.  "  I  have  not  felt  well  since  breakfast,"  and 
she  went  to  a  closet,  and  mixing  something  in  a  tumbler  ap 
plied  to  it  as  a  medicine. 

Before  the  good  lady  had  taken  the  emptied  glass  from  her 
mouth,  Spiffard  entered — in  that  frame  of  mind  which  the 
reader  may  imagine  to  have  been  the  result  of  the  conversation 
and  inuendos  heard  in  the  park,  the  ramble  with  Cooke,  and 
the  soliloquy  which  followed ;  all  of  which  we  have  made  the 
world  duly  acquainted  with. 

The  first  thing  that  caught  his  sight  was  the  tumbler  at  the 
mouth  of  Mrs.  Epsom.  His  eye  was  fixed  upon  it,  and  upon 
the  old  lady,  with  an  expression,  the  description  of  which, 
words  cannot  convey.  All  the  terrific  images  which  he  had 
been  combatting  rushed  again  triumphantly  upon  his  imagina 
tion.  His  lips  were  compressed — he  was  fixed  to  the  spot — 
and  the  eyes  of  his  wife  and  her  mother  were  fixed  upon  him. 


38  Jl  Renunciation. 

The  latter  turned  away,  put  by  the  tumbler,  and  resumed  her 
seat  with  great  and  dignified  composure. 

Spiffard  turned  his  eye  to  his  wife  with  a  look  of  inquiry. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Spiffard  ?"  she  asked. 

"  The  matter  ?  nothing — I — I  have  had  a  long  walk  with 
Mr.  Cooke — I — I  am  a  little  fatigued."  And  he  sat  down. 
His  feelings  approached  to  that  sickness  which  occasions  total 
prostration  of  bodily  power — some  times  called  heart-sickness. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Spiffard,  "  that  the  old  gentleman  was 
gay  and  agreeable.  He  was  not  very  clear  at  rehearsal,  and  cut 
it  rather  short,  leaving  the  prompter  to  supply  his  place.  I  am 
afraid  he  has  been  busier  with  his  bottle  than  his  book."  This 
was  spoken  in  a  forced  manner,  and  to  hide  the  feelings  occa 
sioned  by  the  previous  scene. 

"  What  a  pity  it  is,"  said  Emma,  who  had  now  resumed  her 
secluded  seat  by  the  window,  "  that  a  man  of  such  talents 
should  be  a  slave  to  such  a  debasing  vice." 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  most  hypocriti 
cal  sigh,  as  she  took  a  huge  pinch  of  Irish  blackguard. 

"It  is  damnable,"  cried  Spiffard,  with  a  tone  and  look  which 
was  as  new  to  his  auditory  as  it  was  unaccountable  from  any 
thing  that  had  occurred  since  his  appearance  among  them. 

It  is  thus  that  we  bring  into  new  scenes  and  companies  the  feel 
ings  acquired  elsewhere — and  which  are  discordant,  and  some 
times  irritating,  to  those  of  the  persons  we  approach ;  and  thus 
we,  by  our  ill  temper,  mar  the  social  harmony  of  our  friends. 
How  is  this  to  be  avoided  ?  By  repressing  our  selfish  sensa 
tions,  and  adapting  ourselves  to  those  we  mingle  with. 

"  Perfectly  damnable,"  he  continued.  "How  can  rational  crea 
tures  be  reconciled  to  the  infamy  which  must  attend  so  loathsome 
a  habit,  even  if  they  do  not  dread  the  misery  that  precedes  the 
death  they  purchase  by  their  folly  1  We  do  not  sufficiently  show 
our  detestation  of  the  practice  in  men,  but  even  the  most 
thoughtless  are  shocked  when  they  see  it  in  a  woman :"  and 
he  looked  at  Mrs.  Epsom,  not  unobserved  by  his  wife. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Spiffard,  you  take  the  matter  up  too  seriously, 
and  speak  too  severely,"  she  said.  "  A  little  stimulus  is  neces 
sary,  absolutely  necessary  after,  and  sometimes  during  the 
exertions  our  profession  demands." 

"  I  deny  the  necessity,  madam.  If  it  exists,  the  profession 
ought  to  be  abandoned.  This  stimulating,  when  often  repeated, 
becomes  a  habit.  The  practitioner  from  a  little  goes  to  more, 
until  the  stomach  becomes  vitiated,  and  the  appetite  depraved. 
Then  the  time  inevitably  comes,  when  to  refrain  appears  worse 


Ji  Renunciation.  39 

than  death  ;  worse  than  the  worst  of  deaths  ;  a  death  of  madness 
and  remorse !  unless  some  friendly  hand,  or  blessed  circum 
stance,  snatches  the  victim  from  destruction." 

"  I  believe  there  is  much  truth  in  what  you  say,"  said  his 
wife  ;  "  but  I  do  not  see  what  has  occasioned  your  great  warmth 
on  the  subject  at  this  moment.  Before  you  came  in,  we  were 
engaged  in  a  very  interesting  discussion — one  in  which  you  will 
take  part ;  and  I  must  make  an  appeal  to  you.  What  do  you 
think  ?  our  little  Emma  has  determined  never  to  enter  within 
the  walls  of  the  theatre ;  and  I  can  assure  you  that  she  has  de 
livered  her  determination  with  an  emphasis  and  manner — not 
to  say  discretion — which  has  convinced  me  that  she  would  be 
the  ornament  of  any  stage  in  the  world.  But  she  abjures  play 
houses  in  toto — at  least  all  behind  the  curtain,  if  not  both  boxes 
and  stage." 

"  She  is  right !"  said  Spiffard,  emphatically ;  "  the  stage  !  no  ! 
she  is  right !" 

"  Right  V9  exclaimed  the  two  actresses. 

"  Yes,  right.  She  is  innocent — she  is  pure — she  is  unsophis 
ticated  and  uncontaminated  :  and  to  remain  so  let  her  hold  to 
her  determination." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  his  wife,  and  her  eyes  flashed  their 
lightnings,  and  then  were  overclouded  by  the  dark  black  des 
cending  brow  ;  while  her  previously  flushed  cheek  blanched. 

"  My  mother  and  myself  are  indebted  to  you !" 

"  The  husband  was  silent.  His  silence  was  not  that  of  one 
who  has  said  that  which  was  wrong  or  untrue.  He  looked 
firmly  in  the  eyes  of  his  wife,  as  if  to  read  his  destiny  there. 

Emma  felt  as  if  she  was  the  cause  of  this  threatening  silence 
— the  stillness  which  precedes  the  thunder's  crash — and  she 
wished  to  conduct,  harmless,  the  lightnings  of  the  gathering 
storm.  She  lifted  her  sunny  eyes  as  she  spoke,  and  fixed  them 
upon  Mrs.  Spiffard. 

"  Nay,  cousin,  Mr.  Spiffard  knows,  as  we  all  do,  that  many, 
very  many  ladies,  exemplary  for  virtues,  as  well  as  conspicuous 
for  talents  and  acquirements,  have  not  only  frequented  the  thea 
tre,  but  trod  the  stage.  Ladies,  who  have  adorned  real  life  by 
their  good  conduct,  their  prudence,  and  their  charity,  as  splen 
didly  as  they  did  the  stage  by  their  accomplishments  and  genius. 
I  need  not  go  to  a  foreign  land  for  examples,  when  I  can  name 
so  many  at  home — and  when  I  know  and  feel  the  purity  and  vir 
tues  of  my  kind  and  good  cousin." 

This  was  spoken  by  the  charming  girl  with  the  full  confi 
dence  of  truth,  for  such  was  her  conviction.  But  the  words 


40  A  Renunciation. 

entered  the  soul  of  Mrs.  Spiffard  like  a  two-edged  sword.  The 
blood  rushed  to  her  face — her  cheeks  burned — and  from  her 
lowering  brow  and  dark  eyes,  flashed  a  glance  upon  Emma, 
such  as  only  truth  might  bear  unharmed.  But  it  met  the  open 
eye  and  arched  brow  of  innocence,  unconscious  of  offending, 
and  the  glance  of  the  conscience-stricken  was  cast  on  the  floor, 
with  an  expression  of  troubled  emotion,  confused  ideas,  and 
wandering  thoughts,  almost  too  much  for  endurance. 

Emma  felt  that  she  had  failed  to  produce  the  good  she  wished ; 
but  could  little  conceive  the  cause  of  the  failure.  The  gloomy 
silence  continued.  At  length  Spiffard  spoke,  mildly  and  in  a 
subdued  tone.  "  Mrs.  Spiffard,"  said  he,  rising,  and  taking  her 
hand,  "  I  have  something  to  communicate  to  you." 

The  lady  rose  gloomily  to  accompany  her  lord. 

"  I  will  finish  this  ruffle  up  stairs,  and  bring  it  to  you  in  a 
minute  or  two,"  said  Emma ;  and  without  waiting  reply  she  left 
the  room  with  an  air  as  light  and  graceful  as  we  may  imagine 
the  waving  of  an  angel's  plumes,  when  winged  to  the  regions  of 
bliss. 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  few  moments.  Zeb  seemed  to  think 
that  as  the  young  lady  had  left  the  room,  the  old  lady  might  do 
the  same  ;  but  old  ladies  do  not  always  follow  the  example  of 
young  ones  ;  and  when  they  do,  they  do  not  always  move  upon 
angels'  wings.  She  did  not  seem  inclined  to  move  at  all.  The 
husband  sat  down.  His  wi^e  took  her  seat  again  in  a  dignified 
sullen  silence.  He  revolved  in  his  mind  the  communication  he 
had  to  make.  "  Should  he  speak  of  the  remarks  of  the  young 
men  1"  He  dismissed  the  thought.  "  How  should  he  break  the 
subject  ?"  His  reverie  was  interrupted  by  his  wife's  voice. 

"  Mamma,  Mr.  Spiffard,  it  appears,  has  some  private  com 
munication  to  make  to  me.  Shall  we  retire  ?"  and  she  again 
moved  from  her  seat. 

"  I  am  going,  child."  And  the  stately  dame  took  a  liberal 
pinch  of  snuff,  gathered  together  her  sewing  materials,  and  her 
book,  and  with  a  swimming  air  and  no  very  sweet  expression  of 
countenance,  left  her  son  and  daughter  to  the  matrimonial  hap 
piness  which  appeared  to  await  them. 

Mrs.  Spiffard  looked  gloomily  upon  her  spouse.  He  started 
up — walked — and  then  sat  down  again. 

The  importance  of  our  subject — viz. — conjugal  happiness,  or 
the  reverse,  is  so  great,  that  we  are  compelled  to  commence 
another  chapter  before  venturing  upon  it. 


Explanations  and  Concealments.  41 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Explanations  and  Concealments. 

" will  but  join  you  together  as  they  join  wainscot ;  then  one  of 

you  will  prove  a  shrunk  pannel,  and  like  green  timber,  warp — warp !" 

"Wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting,  is  as  a  Scotch  jig;******  the  first — full 
as  fantastical — the  wedding  mannerly-modest — then  comes  repentance  and 
***  falls  into  a  cinque-pace — till  he  sinks  into  his  grave." — Shakspeare. 

IT  is  no  trifling  matter,  gentle  reader,  for  us  to  draw  aside  (he 
veil  of  the  matrimonial  sanctuary — -imd  expose  to  your  gaze  the 
mysteries  of  wedded  life.  Be  assured  it  is  not  to  gratify  your 
idle  curiosity  that  we  do  it,  but  to  show  you  the  inevitable  con 
sequences  of  ill-assorted  unions — matches  that  smell  of  the 
brimstone — and  to  point  out  the  blessings  which  as  certainly 
flow  from  a  marriage  in  which  the  parties  are  induced  to  make 
the  important  contract  from  a  knowledge  of  each  other's  good 
qualities  founded  upon  long  continued  observation,  and  a  sense 
of  their  moral  duties.  To  such,  the  quotations  at  the  head  of 
this  chapter  do  not  apply. 

Neither  will  we  exclude  from  the  list  of  good  qualities,  in  male 
or  female,  youth,  health,  or  beauty.  We  would  have  you, 
madam  (or  miss,)  to  marry  a  man  a  little  older  than  yourself, 
even  ten  years  older  if  you  should  be  foolish  enough  to  think 
of  a  husband  at  fifteen.  Now,  our  hero,  Zebediah  Spiffard, 
was  five  years  younger  than  his  wife,  and  this  was  not  as  it 
ought  to  be,  though  the  experiment  may  succeed.  But,  my 
dear  young  ladies,  as  you  value  soul  or  body,  do  not  marry  an 
old  man — or  even  an  elderly  gentleman  of  fifty — wig  or  no 
wig — however  tempting  his  riches,  his  accomplishments,  his 
knowledge  of  the  world,  or  even  his  virtues.  Nature  has  for 
bidden  it ;  and  she  will  be  obeyed,  or  the  pains  and  penalties 
must  be  inflicted  for  the  breach  of  her  laws.  She  does  not 
bring  those  who  break  them  into  court,  formally  to  arraign,  try, 
condemn,  and  punish  them — the  crime,  as  in  many  other- 
cases,  "  brings  its  own  punishment."  As  to  the  old  gentle 
man,  or  man  of  fifty,  if  he  must  have  a  wife,  let  him  be  content 
to  marry  merit,  and  waive  pretensions  to  youth  and  beauty. 
But  it  is  time  we  return  to  the  man  and  wife  of  our  story. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spiffard,  were  left,  by  the  departure  of  Emma 
Portland  and  Mrs.  Epsom,  to  the  full  and  free  enjoyment  of 

VOL.  i.  4 


42  Explanations  and  Concealments. 

the  bitter  cup  which  they  had  been  preparing  for  themselves — 
each  for  the  other — and  each  for  self — by  precipitation  on  one 
part,  and  deception  on  the  other. 

Spiffard  still  continued  sitting,  as  if  unconscious  of  the  de 
parture  of  the  young  lady  or  the  old ;  or  as  if  he  had  no  part  to 
play  in  the  matrimonial  scene.  In  truth  he  was  at  a  loss  how 
to  begin. 

Before  he  had  arrived  at  the  theatre  of  action,  he  thought  he 
had  resolved  to  tell  his  wife  how  evil  tongues  spoke  of  her ; — 
and  to  question  her  bluntly  ;  but  now,  that  she  was  before  him, 
he  had  not  the  heart  to  do  it.  In  truth,  his  nature  was  such 
that  he  would  not  willingly  inflict  pain  upon  any  human  being, 
and  much  less  upon  one  who  loved  him.  We  say  he  would 
not  willingly,  that  is,  when  reason  was  unclouded  by  passion. 
But  it  had  become  necessary  that  their  marriage  should  be 
announced — that  his  wife's  name  ;  that  the  words  'Mrs.  Spiffard' 
should  be  in  the  play-bills.  It  had  been  at  his  request  that  the 
union  had  been  kept  private,  meaning  to  announce  it  at  the  end 
of  the  theatrical  season.  The  secrecy  had  originated  in  a  fear, 
which  he  did  not  avow  to  himself,  of  the  ridicule  of  these  same 
young  gentlemen,  who  had  now,  by  commencing  an  attack 
upon  him,  forced  him  to  avow  his  blissful  state.  And  what 
reason  should  he  give  for  the  change  of  plan  and  opinion  ? 

Spiffard  was  a  lover  of  truth  ;  a  declaimer  against  disguise  : 
he  had  deviated  from  the  path  of  rectitude  in  concealing  his 
marriage ;  he  had  acted  under  the  influence  of  self-delusion, 
and  contrary  to  sober  conviction,  in  contracting  it :  he  was 
punished  by  the  consequences  naturally  flowing  from  the  fault. 

Mrs.  Spiffard  had  resumed  her  uneasy  seat,  and  sat  looking 
at  the  livid  countenance  of  her  husband,  and  feeling  that  sick 
ness  of  the  heart  which  the  consciousness  of  hidden  acts,  and 
the  fear  of  detection,  causes.  At  length,  impatient  of  a  sus 
pense  which  became  more  dreadful  each  moment,  and  tortured 
by  imaginings  more  harrowing  than  any  reality,  she  started 
from  her  chair,  and  arousing  all  that  whirlwind  of  passion 
which  a  bad  education,  and  evil  example  from  childhood,  had 
made  her  own,  and,  as  it  were,  engrafted  upon  her  better  na 
ture,  (and  a  display  of  which  had  never  been  made  before  her 
present  husband,  or  even  her  cousin  Emma,)  she  folded  her 
beautiful  arms,  and  with  a  step  which  is  called  theatrical,  but 
which  is  the  true  indication  of  lofty  feeling  or  great  excitement, 
and  belongs  to  the  nature  of  passion,  she  walked  the  room, 
bending  on  her  lord  as  threatening  a  look  as  ever  Lady  Mac  • 
beth  bestowed  upon  her  wavering  would-be-king  when  he 


Explanations  and  Concealments.  43 

hesitated  to  do  that  which  he  wished  done ;  letting  "  I  dare 
not  wait  upon  I  would,  like  the  poor  cat  i'the  adage."  At 
length  she  ceased  her  walk,  and  stood  before  him  ;  and,  after  a 
•  pause,  assuming  a  tone  of  irony,  she  said,  "  I  thought  you  had 
something  of  high  import  to  propose,  Mr.  Spiff ard  !" 

"  Please  to  sit  down,  madam,"  said  Zeb,  who  had  been 
roused  by  his  wife's  tone  and  attitude  ;  "  please  to  be  seated," 
and  he  led  her  to  her  chair.  She  resumed  her  seat  with  a 
scornful  toss  of  the  head.  He  slowly  drew  his  chair  near, 
and  placed  himself  beside  her. 

"  It  has  become  necessary,  Mrs.  Spiffard,  that  our  marriage 
should  be  announced." 

A  weight  was  lifted  from  the  lady's  bosom — she  breathed 
freer — and  replied,  "the  concealment  was  a  plan  of  your  own, 
Mr.  Spiffard." 

"It  was,  madam,  and  like  all  concealments,  was  foolish  if 
not  criminal,  and  rewarded  accordingly." 

Mrs.  Spiffard  felt  the  blood  rush  to  her  cheeks  and  forehead 
— again  she  breathed  hard,  as  she  said,  "  What  has  changed 
your  view  of  the  subject? — I  mean — wyhat  —  1" 

Our  hero  felt  unequal  to  the  task  of  telling  the  truth,  although 
thus  questioned.  He  shrunk  from  inflicting  pain  on  one  who 
had  committed  her  welfare  to  his  keeping.  He  took  refuge  in 
a  second  concealment,  while  reprobating  the  first.  This  is 
weakness,  but  not  uncommon.  He  hesitated,  and  then  said, 
"  concealment  looks  like  fear  of  shame — or  consciousness  of 
wrong." 

"  The  concealment  was  in  compliance  with  your  wish," 
replied  his  wife  ;  but  in  a  tone  faltering  and  subdued. 

"  My  intention  was,  as  I  then  stated  to  you,  that  your 
name  should  remain  unaltered  in  the  bills  until  the  end  of  your 
present  engagement ;  when  we  would  leave  town,  and  an 
nounce  our  marriage  at  the  time.  But  circumstances — imper 
tinent — in  short,  it  is  best  to  tell  the  truth  openly — and  meet — " 
he  hesitated. 

Mrs.  Spiffard  again  had  been  pale  ;  now,  the  blood  rushed 
to  her  face  and  neck.  "  Meet  wrhat,  sir  ?" 

"  The  consequences." 

"  The  consequences  !"  she  repeated.  "  The  consequences  !" 

"  At  least,"  he  continued,  "  when  it  is  known  that  you  are 
my  wife,  I  shall  not  hear — or — if  I  do — I  shall  have  a  right  to 
resent  as  insults  to  myself — "  again  he  hesitated. 

The  haughty  spirit  of  the  unfortunate  woman  had  been 
aroused.  She  had  begun  the  conversation  in  a  strain  of  high 


44  Explanations  and  Concealments. 

feeling,  and  a  tone  of  offended  pride,  and  assumed  superiority  ; 
but  conscience  now  asserted  its  rights.  We  mean,  by  con 
science,  the  memory  of  past  transactions,  which  reason  pro 
nounces  to  be  wrong.  And  the  inward  inquiry  of,  "T\7hat  has 
he  heard  1"  overpowered  her. 

"It  is  the  misfortune  of  our  profession — its  curse — "  at 
length,  she  said,  "  that  the  idle,  the  mischievous,  and  the  ma 
lignant,  feel  at  liberty  to  suggest  any  ill,  or  frame  any  report  to 
our  detriment,  and  the  world  is  ready  to  credit  any  story  that 
may  be  fabricated  to  the  disadvantage  of  an  actress." 

"  It  is  too  true.     But  you  can  defy —  1" 

"  I  do  defy,  sir  !" 

Short  as  had  been  the  time  between  the  quailing  of  her  lofty 
spirit  and  the  last  question,  she  had  rallied  the  energies  of 
her  character,  so  far,  at  least,  as  to  act  the  offended  innocent, 
but  it  was  in  a  style  of  unnatural  exaggeration  ;  which,  al 
though  not  satisfactory  to  her  husband,  gave  an  excuse  and 
opportunity  for  self-delusion ;  and  he  resolved  to  believe, 
where  it  was  so  much  his  interest  that  the  belief  should  be  well 
founded.  Much  of  the  belief  of  this  credulous  world  has  the 
same  species  of  foundation. 

All  the  native  kindly  disposition  of  the  water-drinker  return 
ed — or  rather  burst  forth  from  the  cloud  which  had  obscured  it 
— and  taking  his  wife's  hand,  he  said,  "  I  have  been  urged  to 
uneasiness,  irritation,  anxious  thought,  and  almost  to  unjust 
suspicions,  by  the  foolish  babble  of  two  or  three  gentlemen,  who 
no  doubt  knew,  by  some  means,  of  our  marriage,  and  took  this 
mode  of  punishing  me  for  the  concealment.  They  perhaps, 
for  the  moment,  think  themselves  justifiable  ;  though  I  cannot 
see  how  the  term  quiz  or  hoax  can  justify  falsehood  of  any  de 
scription.  Truth  is  too  sacred  to  be  jested  with  ;  and  its  vio 
lation,  in  any  shape,  is  a  blot  upon  the  character  of  man  or 
woman  ;  it  is  a  fault  that  ought  to  be  punished  by  the  contempt 
of  the  world,  as  well  as  by  self-disapprobation.  I  will  imme 
diately  announce  our  marriage.  I  wronged  both  you  and  my 
self  in  the  wish  for  a  moment's  concealment.  Your  name 
shall  appear  as  Mrs.  Spiffard  in  the  next  bills  of  the  theatre. 
This  will  prevent  any  more  hoaxing ;  and  I  hope  you  will 
forgive  me  for  allowing  the  jests  of  these  thoughtless  young 
men  to  have  a  momentary  effect  upon  me." 

Mrs.  Spiffard  burst  into  tears.  She  was  moved  by  conflict 
ing  thoughts  ;  and,  though  tears  were  a  relief,  there  was  a 
portion  of  bitterness  mingled  in  the  stream  from  the  overflow 
ing  cup  of  conscience. 


Explanations  and  Concealments.  45 

The  husband  spoke  soothingly.  "  Come,  come,  no  more 
of  this — I  am  going  out  for  a  short  time — when  I  come  back 
let  me  see  that  this  cloud  has  left  no  trace  behind  it." 

"  Oh,  God  !  oh,  God  !  what  a  wretch  am  I !"  exclaimed  his 
wife,  as  soon  as  left  alone. 

Having  thus  introduced  our  readers  (in  that  abrupt  manner 
recommended  by  critics,  and  long  practised  by  story-tellers  in 
prose  and  verse,)  to  some  of  the  prominent  personages  of  our 
history,  we  will  now  go  to  the  beginning,  and,  soberly  and 
regularly,  give  an  account  of  the  birth,  parentage,  and  educa 
tion  of  Zebediah  Spiffard ;  and  perhaps  show  that  he  is  of 
noble  descent,  and  might  bear  heraldric  honours  on  his  coach, 
if  he  had  one — that  is  as  it  may  be. 

We  will  speak  of  the  water-drinker,  showing  how  he  passed 
th  ough  the  states  or  stages  of  life — of  a  barefooted  Green 
Mountain  boy — a  Boston  lawyer's  clerk — and  a  travelling 
yankee  gentleman,  to  the  stage,  on  which  we  found  him,  of  the 
New- York  Theatre.  But  in  all  this  it  will  be  our  pleasant 
duty,  more  especially,  to  account  for  that  morbid  sensibility, 
which  was  woven  into  his  very  essence,  on  the  subject  of 
ebriety  ;  that  dread  which  he  entertained  of  the  effects  of  any 
approach  to  a  habit  of  intemperance — a  dread,  which,  with  the 
species  of  fascination  that  every  victim  to  the  habit  exerted 
over  him,  formed  the  basis  of  his  character. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

Beginning  of  a  Town — and  a  Man. 

t:For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  served  in ;  for  the  meat,  sir,  it  shall  be  co 
vered  ;  for  your  coming  in  to  dinner,  sir,  let  it  be  as  humours  and  conceits 
shall  govern." — Shakspeare. 

"Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 
While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm, 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes ; 
Youth  on  the  prow,  and  pleasure  at  the  helm  : 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway, 
That  hushed  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening  prey."-GVay. 

GENTLE  and  courteous  reader,  or  rather  readers,  (for  like 
Legion,  ye  are  many  that  shall  read  these  memoirs ;)  fair  read 
ers — for  the  life  of  Zebediah  Spiffard  will  be  read  by  every 

4* 


46  Beginning  of  a  Town — and  a  JWan. 

female  that  can  read,  (and  all  read  in  this  our  happy  land  ;)  this 
book  will  be  sought  after  by  the  fair  sex,  inasmuch  as  it  treats 
of  the  gay  and  the  grave — the  good  and  bad — of  ladies,  and  of 
those  who,  next  to  soldiers,  are  the  delight  of  ladies ;  we  mean 
players  ;  those  lively,  happy,  delightful  children  of  the  mimic 
world,  who  present  to  the  minds  of  youth  a  picture  of  en 
chanting  power,  ever  varying  and  ever  bright.  Kind  readers, 
of  both  sexes,  we  sit  down  determined  to  write  for  your  amuse 
ment,  (far  be  it  from  us  to  attempt  to  instruct  you,)  a  faithful 
narrative  of  adventures  appertaining  to  the  romance  of  real  life, 
from  the  perusal  of  which  you  shall  undoubtedly  rise  as  tired  in 
mind  and  body,  owing  to  excessive  excitement  and  long  con 
tinued  gratification,  as  ever  you  did  from  the  representation  of 
a  play,  or  even  of  an  Italian  opera.  But  as  we  have  promised  to 
begin  at  the  beginning,  we  must  hasten  to  commence  our  story. 

Zebediah  Spiffard  was  born  in  the  month  of  October,  of  the 
year  1786,  in  an  obscure  but  very  pleasant  village,  appertaining 
to  the  truly  democratic  state  of  Vermont.  His  father  had  been 
one  of  the  first  settlers,  a  pioneer,  and  the  village,  in  accor 
dance  with  self-complacency,  which  makes  so  great  an  item  in 
the  account  of  human  happiness,  was  called  "  Spiffard  Town." 

Squire  Spiffard,  our  hero's  father,  made  the  first  clearing  in 
the  valley  of  Long-pond,  where  he  arrived  with  all  his  worldly 
possessions,  (an  axe,  a  yoke  of  oxen,  a  wagon,  and  a  wife,) 
before  a  tree  had  been  "  felled  ;"  and  where  he,  in  a  few  years, 
saw  a  thriving  village,  the  fruit  of  his  enterprising  industry, 
spread  from  his  dwelling  and  surround  him ;  the  inhabitants  of 
which  were  grateful  to  the  man  who  had  led  them  to  the  wilder 
ness,  pointing  their  way  to  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey. 

His  first  shelter,  a  log  hut,  now  (that  is,  at  this  second  be 
ginning  of  our  history,  and  the  first  beginning  of  the  life  of  our 
hero  in  1786,)  appertained,  or  was  appended  to  the  neat  and 
spacious  white  mansion  that  sheltered  his  numerous  offspring, 
and  served  as  a  wash-house,  having  previously  served  as  a 
kitchen,  when  the  present  kitchen  was  the  mansion-house. 

Such  is  the  progress  of  a  settler  in  the  wilderness,  and  it  is 
but  a  few  years  since  Vermont  was  such.  The  log  hut  is  at 
first  "  parlour,  kitchen,  and  hall ;"  then  is  erected  the  log  house, 
larger,  better  furnished,  and  more  comfortably  plastered  with 
clay ;  then  the  hut  becomes  the  kitchen,  and  shortly  after,  (a 
saw-mill  having  been  erected  on  a  neighbouring  stream,)  the 
framed  and  planked  mansion  arises,  the  house  becomes,  in  its 
turn,  the  kitchen,  while  the  original  germ,  the  hut,  is  degraded 
to  a  wash-house  or  pig-sty. 


Beginning  of  a  Town — and  a  JWan.  47 

Instead  of  looking,  as  he  once  did,  from  the  door  of  his  lowly 
dwelling,  on  a  thick  and  almost  impenetrable  forest,  his  own 
clearing  alone  giving  him  a  peep  at  the  beautiful  sheet  of  water 
he  called  a  pond,  Squire  SpifTard  now  saw  a  long  street  of  com 
fortable  houses,  each  with  its  garden  and  orchard,  while  the 
spires  of  the  Court-house,  the  school,  and  the  church,  marked 
the  presence  of  justice,  education,  and  religion.  It  is  true  that 
the  squire's  house,  like  those  of  most  of  his  neighbours,  was  not 
finished.  The  upper  story  served,  however,  for  bed-cham 
bers  and  store-rooms ;  and  below,  or  en  the  ground  flooj^  all 
looked  and  was  comfortable — including  the  best  bed-chamber 
for  the  ever  welcome  guest. 

So  rapid  is  the  progress  of  Yankee  improvement,  that  by  the 
time  our  hero  was  qualified  to  appreciate  its  beauties,  the  valley 
of  Long-pond  had  become  a  little  paradise.  We  do  not  mean 
a  heavenly,  but  an  earthly  paradise,  with  all  its  concomitant  im 
perfections,  yet  possessing  that  paradisaical  feature,  youth,  with 
its  bloom  and  growing  perfection  ;  and  in  spite  of  the  diseases 
incident  to  youth,  a  total  absence  of  every  symptom  of  decay. 

A  row  of  neat  white  houses,  separated  from  each  other  by 
cultivated  enclosures,  skirted  the  level  road  formed  at  the  foot 
of  one  of  those  hills  that  encircled  this  valley.  This  road  was 
on  the  margin  of  a  lake,  which,  after  the  homely  manner  of  our 
country,  was  called  a  pond ;  and  which  presented  its  sweet 
waters  to  the  eye,  limpid  as  those  of  Lake  George,  so  well 
known  to  those  for  whom  I  write. 

This  lovely  sheet  of  pure  water  extended  for  miles  in  front 
of  the  dwellings  occupied  by  Yankee  yeoman,  (not  farmers  of 
the  soil  but  proprietors,)  serving  and  delighting  their  wives,  and 
swarms  of  white-headed  urchins.  The  pond  gave  to  the  villa 
gers  fish  and  wild  fowl,  and  afforded  the  male  children  opportu 
nities  for  exercise  in  swimming,  rowing,  sliding,  and  skaiting. 
Between  the  road  and  the  lake,  the  cornfields  and  meadows 
spread  in  rich  luxuriance  ;  and  as  you  ascended  the  hill  behind 
the  houses,  you  were  cheered,  in  the  spring,  by  the  fragrance 
of  the  apple  blossoms,  and  in  autumn,  by  fruit  of  every  tint  and 
flavour.  In  winter,  the  hearths  blazed  with  piles  of  hickory,  and 
were  made  to  resound  with  the  shouts  of  gladness  by  the  fre 
quent  husking  frolic ;  when  the  yellow  ears  of  maize  are  stript 
of  their  outward  dusky  covering,  and  the  grain  rasped  from 
the  cob,  and  poured  into  the  basket  or  bin  ;  while  the  rustic  jest, 
or  the  tale  of  grandfather's  wars  with  the  Indians  on  Connecti 
cut  river — or  father's  adventures  when  opposed  to  Burgoyne,  at 
old  Tye,  Bennington,  or  Saratoga,  mingle  with  the  cracking  of 


48  Beginning  of  a  Town — and  a  Man. 

the  kissleatomasses,  the  chesnuts,  the  butternuts,  and  walnuts, 
and  are  interrupted  by  draughts  of  the  precious  juice  of  the  crab, 
the  spitzbergen,  and  the  red-streak,  from  the  orchard — exhaust- 
less  source  of  innocent  exhilaration — the  gift  of  heaven,  not  yet 
converted  to  a  curse  by  the  poison-making  still. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  enter  into  descriptions  of  the  life  of 
the  pioneer  on  an  American  settlement ;  let  the  reader  look  to 
the  pages  of  Flint,  or  the  inimitable  pictures  of  nature,  charac 
ter,  and  manners,  in  "  The  Pioneers"  of  Fennimore  Cooper. 
We  merely  wish  to  give  some  notion  of  the  place  of  our  hero's 
birth,  and  of  those  scenes  which  surrounded  his  infancy  and 
boyhood  at  SpifFard  Town ;  for  these  scenes  of  early  lite  are 
ever  present  to  the  adult,  go  where  he  will  in  after  days,  and 
the  impressions  from  them  make  part  of  his  character,  and  in 
fluence  his  actions,  whether  as  a  Ledyard,  he  explores  the 
Pacific  ocean  and  the  deserts  of  Africa,  or  as  a  Starke  or  a 
Greene  leads  his  brother  yeomen  to  encounter  the  invader  of 
home  and  the  homestead.  The  scenery  and  scenes  of  the  Yal- 
ley  of  Long-pond,  tended  to  form  a  part  of  the  character  of  Ze- 
bediah  Spiffard,  and  therefore  appertain  to  his  memoirs. 

We  have  said,  that  behind  the  row  of  houses  which  formed 
the  village,  was  a  gently-rising  hill,  on  which  bloomed  the  health- 
giving  orchard.  A  few  gardens  likewise  decorated  this  beauti 
ful  hill,  with  here  and  there  a  grove  of  the  undisturbed  native 
growth  of  the  soil,  giving  a  touch  of  the  picturesque  to  what 
would  otherwise  have  been  too  uniform.  Do  not  let  it  be  sup 
posed  that  we  mean  to  insinuate  that  the  gardens  had  too  much 
regularity,  or  neatness,  or  uniformity ;  for,  except  the  squire's 
and  the  parson's,  they  exhibited  a  sufficient  portion  of  luxuriant 
negligence  about  them  to  avert  that  charge,  and  in  truth  were 
many  of  them  more  abundant  in  weeds  than  in  worth.  The 
church  likewise  ornamented  this  favoured  hill  (which  in  Eng 
land  would  have  been  a  mountain),  and  its  rustic  spire  was  a 
heart-soothing  feature  in  the  landscape,  whether  seen  from  the 
rock  which  towered  above  its  vane,  or  from  the  lake  in  which 
its  peace-inspiring  image  was  reflected. 

We  have  given  some  account  of  the  Adam  or  first  man  of 
this  paradise,  by  name  Jeremiah  SpifFard,  and  by  title  squire  ; 
but  as  there  never  was  a  paradise  without  an  Eve,  or  a  Zebe- 
diah  without  a  mother,  it  is  incumbent  upon  us  to  introduce 
the  squire's  lady,  and  Zeb's  mamma,  to  the  reader.  The  squire 
had  brought  with  him  to  the  wilderness,  as  we  have  said,  and 
we  do  not  like  repetitions,  but,  at  the  same  time,  know  that  they 
are  very  useful  to  the  memories  of  novel  readers,  or  even  the 


Beginning  of  a  Town — and  a  Man.  49 

readers  of  true  histories  like  this  ;  be  that  as  it  may,  we  have 
said,  and  we  repeat*  he  brought  with  him  to  the  wilderness  a 
yoke  of  oxen,  an  axe,  a  wagon,  and  a  wife.  Before  the  thicket 
became  a  paradise — before  the  swamps  on  the  borders  of  the 
lake  became  meadows,  or  the  blessed  sun  had  been  permitted 
to  shine  upon  the  earth  and  dissipate  the  encumbent  fogs  and 
redundant  moisture,  poor  Mrs.  Spiffard  died.  The  husband 
was  left  wifeless,  childless,  and  disconsolate.  He  had  loved  his 
wife.  She  was  his  first  love,  and  perhaps  he  never  loved  again. 
Marry  again  he  certainly  did,  or  we  should  never  have  written 
these  memoirs  of  his  oldest  and  lawfully-begotten  son. 

After  bearing  up  manfully  for  a  time  without  a  help-mate — 
after  seeing  all  clear  around  him — settlers  coming  in  upon  his 
land  as  fast  as  a  land-owner  could  wish — a  school-house,  a  ta 
vern,  and  a  church  built,  he  paid  a  visit  to  Boston,  where  his 
elder  brother  resided,  and  in  truth  his  principal  business  was  to 
seek  a  wife.  He  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  contribute  to  the  school- 
house  and  church.  Under  such  circumstances  the  object  13 
soon  found.  Some  of  those  who  purchased  his  lands  and 
brought  families  into  the  settlement,  said  "  they  thought  Squire 
Spiffard  might  have  found  a  wife  among  their  daughters,  as  fit 
for  a  squire's  lady  at  the  Valley  of  Lon^-pond,  as  any  he  would 
be  like  to  find  among  the  fine  ladies  of  Boston."  Perhaps  they 
were  right.  We  shall  see. 

An  Englishman,  Mr.  James  Atherton,  had  recently  arrived 
at  the  metropolis  of  Massachusetts,  in  search  of  what  he  had 
lost  in  London — fortune.  He  was  what  Shakspeare  has  called 
an  "  ebbing"  man  ;  and  has  said — 

"Ebbing  men,  indeed, 
Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run 
By  fear  or  sloth." 

He  had  run  so  near  the  bottom  as  to  touch.  He  brought  with 
him  a  wife  and  three  daughters,  two  of  whom,  although,  until 
the  voyage  of  emigration,  they  had  scarcely  been  out  of  the 
sound  of  Bow-bell,  and  never  in  the  first,  or  perhaps  second, 
circles  of  that  country  of  circles,  were  nevertheless  genteel,  and 
what  is  called  well-educated ;  the  third  was  yet  a  child.  A 
knowledge  of  the  new  world  into  which  their  father  had  brought 
them,  had  not  been  thought  of,  as  a  part  of  their  education. 
Their  father  knew  as  little  of  it,  except  as  a  mart  for  merchan 
dise  and  a  nursery  of  rebellion.  .Europeans,  then,  disdained 
such  knowledge.  They  have  since  been  induced  to  inquire 
how  it  is,  that  a  people  of  many  millions  manage  to  prosper 


5  0  Beginning  of  a  Town — and  a 

without  the  protection  of  kings  or  lords,  or  a  national  church, 
or  a  standing  army  ;  and  by  what  contrivance  they  render  harm 
less  the  hosts  of  paupers  and  criminals,  which  want  and  worth- 
lessness  drive  from  the  shores  of  the  old  world,  for  refuge  in 
the  new. 

The  elder  daughters  of  Mr.  Atherton  had  the  usual  cockney 
contempt  for  all  foreigners,  especially  Yankees  ;  and  although 
conscious  of  their  father's  humiliating  necessities,  felt  themselves 
better  than  any  thing  in  Boston.  The  oldest  of  these  young  la 
dies,  who  was  about  five-and-twenty,  was  what  is  called  showy  ; 
nay,  she  was  handsome.  Fine,  dark,  glossy  hair,  fine  teeth, 
fine  complexion,  brilliant  eyes,  tall  person,  fashionable  dress, 
and  an  animated  manner,  fascinated  the  Vermont  yeoman  ;  who 
would  have  been  despised  by  the  second  sister,  a  more  decided 
beauty  (though  very  like  the  first),  and  perhaps  by  Louisa,  the 
oldest  of  the  three,  if  the  prudent  father  had  not  given  her  some 
hints  which  were  not  to  be  neglected.  In  short,  Jeremiah  Spif- 
fard  married  the  beautiful  English  fine  lady,  and  took  her  to 
SpifTard-town,  at  that  time  consisting  of  five  houses,  a  school- 
house,  tavern,  church,  and  blacksmith's-shop. 

What  a  change  was  here  !  From  the  metropolis  of  Great 
Britain,  to  a  paltry  village  in  Vermont.  From  a  Lord  mayor's 
ball  to  a  husking  frolic.  To  live  in  Boston  was  death  to  Louisa, 
(so  she  said),  what,  then,  was  life  in  Spiffard-town  ?  Her  hus 
band's  good  sense  and  kind  behaviour,  with  handsome  furniture 
and  garniture  brought  from  Boston,  made  this  death  in  life 
s6mevvhat  supportable.  Then  there  was  some  satisfaction  in 
showing  off  to  the  natives,  and  in  being  the  great  lady  of  the 
place.  Besides  that,  during  the  first  year  of  her  residence,  she 
experienced  the  fears,  hopes,  and  joys,  attending  the  birth  of 
our  hero.  Then  came  a  visit  to  Boston  to  see  her  family,  who 
were  preparing  to  return,  disappointed,  to  England.  They  did 
return  ;  and  Mrs.  Spiffard  the  second,  returned  to  SpitFard- 
town,  feeling  that  she  was  abandoned  by  all  that  she  held  most 
valuable  in  the  world  :  for  what,  alas  !  to  a  London  lady,  is  a 
Yankee  husband,  and  a  Yankee  child,  if  she  is  doomed  to  live 
in  a  Yankee  village  ? 

Thus  Squire  Spiffard  had  not  only  got  a  town  lady,  but  a  fo 
reign  lady — a  London  lady — for  a  wife.  Never  let  an  Ameri 
can  marry  an  Englishwoman,  unless  he  is  willing  and  resolved 
to  abandon  his  country.  We  say  English,  because  we  know 
more  of  them,  and  think  higher  of  them,  than  of  any  other  Eu 
ropeans.  If  an  American  marries  in  England,  and  brings  his 
wife  home,  it  is  almost  impossible  but  that  domestic  misery  is 


JL  Sporting  Gentleman,  and  a  Philosophic  Lady.        51 

the  consequence.  No  Englishwcw  has  a  just  notion  of  this 
country  ;  and  we  must  not  expect  better  information  in  the  bet 
ter  sex,  who  are  accustomed  to  rely  for  that  article  too  much 
upon  the  stronger.  A  woman,  who,  even  under  the  influence 
of  love,  gives  up  parents  and  country,  will  find  every  disappoint 
ment  doubled,  and  every  sorrow  aggravated,  by  the  recollection 
of  what  she  left  behind  ;  and  disappointments  and  sorrows  will 
come,  do  what  we  will.  Spiffard  had  the  consolation  of  know 
ing  that  he  did  not  induce  his  wife  to  leave  her  country ;  but 
then  he  was  the  cause  that  she  did  not  return  to  it.  In  short, 
he  had  made  a  very  foolish  choice  of  a  wife.  Mrs.  Spiffard 
became  a  very  discontented  woman  ;  and  not  the  less  so,  for 
finding  that  her  claims  to  superiority  were  resisted  or  laughed 
at  by  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  settlers,  who  rapidly  in 
creased  her  husband's  village  ;  many  of  whom  were,  in  all  the 
better  part  of  knowledge,  better  instructed  than  the  squire's 
lady. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  Sporting  Gentleman,  and  a  Philosophic  Lady. 

"  Alas !  poor  hurt  fowl !    Now  will  he  creep  in  sedges." 


To  fright  the  animals,  and  kill  them  up 
In  their  assigned  and  native  place." 


" A  poor  sequester' d  stag 

That  from  the  hunter's  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt 
Did  come  to  languish." 

Shakspeare. 

ANOTHER  year  passed,  and  another  child  was  given  to  the 
husband ;  and  early  in  the  third  year  of  her  residence  at  Spif- 
fard-town,  the  arrival  of  an  English  gentleman  of  fortune,  with 
his  wife  and  two  young  children,  gave  a  gleam  of  joy  to  the 
misplaced  Louisa ;  but  only  to  plunge  her  in  deeper  darkness. 

The  gentleman  brought  letters  from  Mrs.  Spiffard's  father  ; 
and  having,  as  he  thought,  determined  to  make  America  the 


52        Jl  Sporting  Gentleman,  and  a  Philosophic  Lady. 

place  of  his  future  residence,  only  inquired  for  a  good  sporting 
country  ;  and  being  told  that  SpifTard-town  and  its  vicinity 
abounded  in  game,  and  was  destitute  of  game-laws,  he  never 
doubted  that  the  pheasant  of  Asia  (domesticated  in  his  father's 
park),  and  the  partridge  of  Europe,  were  natives  of  the  Green 
Mountains;  especially  as  he  found  "  real  English  snipe"  on  the 
borders  of  the  lake,  woodcock  on  the  upland,  and  deer,  by 
the  herd,  "  all  along  Champlain."  He  fixed,  at  once,  on  that 
sequestered  spot,  purchased  land,  and  began  to  plan  a  mansion- 
house,  park,  gardens,  and  pleasure-grounds  ;  but,  in  the  mean 
time,  found  no  difficulty  in  purchasing  the  house  and  "  improve 
ments"  of  a  sturdy  yeoman,  who  began  to  think  he  had  too 
many  neighbours,  and  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  Genesee 
country.  The  lady  of  this  gentleman  had  no  apparent  wish  for 
introduction  to  those  of  her  own  sex  and  station  in  Boston  (the 
port  at  which  they  landed),  but  seemed  willing  to  seek  romantic 
solitude  among  those,  whom  she  called  "  the  unsophisticated 
farmers  of  a  new  and  innocent  world." 

This  gentleman's  name  was  Lovedog.  This  is  not  a  coined 
name  to  express  character,  like  Fielding's  Allworthy,  or  the 
Lovegold,  the  Crackjaw,  and  the  thousand  others  of  Comedy, 
but  a  real  family,  English  name  ;  and  that  it  should  denote  the 
bearer's  character,  is  not  our  fault.  It  certainly  did  so  :  for 
Mr.  Lovedog  bestowed  no  small  portion  of  his  affections  on 
some  very  fine  pointers,  setters,  and  terriers,  who  had  accompa 
nied  him  from  England.  Until  he  could  determine  on  a  site 
for  his  intended  buildings  and  plantations,  he  endeavoured  to 
content  himself  in  the  house  recently  built  by  a  Connecticut 
settler,  who,  having  got  all  comfortable  about  him,  was  very 
glad  to  sell  his  buildings  and  go  west,  leaving  the  rich  En 
glishman  to  furnish  his  purchase  by  importations  from  Boston 
and  New- York. 

The  sportsman  was  out  with  his  gun  and  dogs  every  day  and 
all  day.  Sometimes  Spiffard  accompanied,  but  generally  he 
went  alone — his  dogs  his  only  companions.  Spiflard  used  to 
say,  that  it  was  very  pleasant  to  him,  to  ramble  over  hills  and 
dales,  and  that  he  felt  great  exultation  when  he  attained  suffi 
cient  skill  to  strike  down  a  distant  bird  in  its  rapid  flight,  and  to 
be  as  expert  with  a  double-barreled  fowling-piece,  as  he  had 
from  youth  been  with  a  musket  and  rifle  ;  but  when  he  saw  that 
he  wounded  more  birds  than  he  killed — that  he  frequently,  after 
having  brought  to  the  earth,  with  a  broken  wing,  an  innocent 
and  a  harmless  fellow-creature,  had  to  chase  it  before  he  could 
make  prey  of  it,  and  while  struggling  in  agony  and  terror,  to 


Jl  Sporting  Gentleman,  and  a  Philosophic  Lady.        53 

crush  hs  head  or  dash  it  on  a  stone  through  mere  mercy,  he  be 
gan  to  think  that  what  was  sport  to  him  was  worse  than  death  to 
creatures  endowed  with  life  by  the  same  Creator  who  blessed 
him  with  health  and  strength ;  creatures  enjoying  the  same 
blessings  in  another  degree  ; — this  "  gave  him  pause" — and 
reason  told  him  that  he  was  counteracting  God's  will.  He  fre 
quently  observed  too  that  a  bird  though  wounded  escaped,  and  he 
knew  that  there  was  no  surgeon  to  cure  the  wound,  or  nurse  to 
attend  the  patient — for  "  misery  doth  part  the  flux  of  company" 
— the  herd  shun  the  wounded  stag — the  struck  bird  "  seeks  the 
rushes"  and  there  pines  and  dies  in  solitude.  One  day  Spiffard 
exultingly  brought  down  a  bird  from  its  flight — the  fowl  was 
winged  only,  and  ran.  The  triumphant  man  pursued — overtook, 
and  placed  his  foot  on  his  victim.  He  stooped  to  seize  it — the 
bird  turned  up  his  eye  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face  with  such 
an  imploring,  such  a  reproving  glance,  that  his  heart  smote 
him  ;  and  his  reason  rebuked  him  as  a  convicted  murderer — a 
murderer  for  sport.  In  times  lon^  after  he  has  said,  "  I  have 
seen  that  eye  a  thousand  times."  He  never  discharged  a  gun 
to  kill  for  pleasure  again. 

At  the  proper  season  for  the  sport,  for  the  time  and  season 
for  hunting  each  species  of  game  was  observed  by  the  rough 
Yermonters — Lovedog  was  shown,  by  a  neighbour,  the  manner 
of  hunting  the  deer  in  America.  Here  the  free  denizens  of  the 
forest  were  as  free  as  the  citizens  of  the  republic  who  trespassed 
on  their  haunts,  and  sought  their  lives  in  sport.  Lovedog  had 
been  only  accustomed  to  see  the  beautiful  animal  in  the  parks 
of  the  lordly  aristocrats  of  England,  protected  from  commoners 
by  laws  which  seemed  to  value  their  lives  as  if  equal  to  the  lives 
of  men,  but  which  only  protected  them  from  vulgar  inter 
ference  with  the  lord's  pastimes,  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  luxury, 
the  pleasures,  and  the  pomp  of  the  chosen  few,  the  titled  Nim- 
rods,  deriving  what  they  call  their  rights  from  the  conquering 
Norman,  who  desolated  provinces  to  form  privileged  hunting 
forests  for  his  own  gratification.  The  English  sportsman  now 
saw  the  beautiful  animal  in  a  state  of  nature,  free  to  rove  his  na 
tive  woodlands.  The  novelty  pleased  the  gentleman  for  a  time, 
but  he  soon  became  weary  of  the  change;  and  the  deer  hunt  of 
Vermont  suffered  in  comparison  with  the  sports  he  had  been 
used  to,  as  much  as  the  shooting  of  the  partridges,  snipe,  and 
grouse  of  the  country,  appeared  contemptible  and  laborious, 
compared  with  the  same  kind  of  bloody  amusement,  of  which  he 
had  been  a  privileged  participant  in  the  enclosures  devoted  to 
the  lordly  game.  He  sighed  for  the  park  and  the  race-course 

VOL.  i.  5 


54         Jl  Sporting  Gentleman,  and  a  Philosophic  Lady 

of  England.  If  he  had  sighed  for  the  intellectual  pleasures  of 
that  favoured  country,  he  might  he  pitied  in  his  voluntary  exile, 
but  such  pleasures  were  to  him  unknown. 

Therefore  while  Lovedog  continued  in  Vermont,  his  pointers 
and  settere  were  almost  exclusively  his  associates.  Spiffard 
said,  some  time  after,  that  his  dogs  were  his  only  fit  companions. 
In  truth,  it  was  hard  to  conceive  that  an  English  gentleman  of 
fortune  (and  fortune  he  certainly  had)  could  be  so  profoundly 
ignorant  as  Lovedog.  Not  so  his  wife.  She  was  almost  blue. 
She  had  not  only  read,  but  conversed  with  the  Darwins,  Hay- 
leys,  Sheridans,  Moores,  and  Sewards.  But  she  was  as  totally 
ignorant  of  the  world  she  had  come  to,  as  she  was  of  the  world 
to  come.  She  thought  she  was  a  philosopher,  and  was  willing 
to  be  thought  an  atheist,  rather  than  her  philosophy  should  be 
doubted.  Voltaire,  Rousseau,  Condorcet,  Helvetius,  Hume  and 
Gibbon,  were  at  her  tongue's  tip.  She  imagined  that  on  coming 
to  America  she  should  find  an  Arcadia,  such  as  she  imagined 
Arcadia  had  been  ;  and  was  determined  to  be  the  lawgiver,  the 
female  Solon  of  an  Utopia,  such  as  she  thought  an  Utopia  ought 
to  be.  She  found  herself  in  Spiffard-town,  among  practical 
pioneers,  and  was  soon  solicited  for  her  contribution  to  the  build 
ing  a  new  church,  and  the  support  of  a  new  clergyman  who 
preached  thorough-going  Calvinism  in  the  school  house,  until  his 
pulpit  and  steeple  should  be  erected. 

Disappointed  in  not  finding  an  Utopia,  she  imagined  herself 
in  a  Botany  bay.  Mrs.  Lovedog  soon  tired  of,  and  became 
tiresome  to  her  neighbours.  The  yeomen's  wives,  (simple  souls!) 
were  shocked  at  what  they  thought  indecency,  and  she  was  dis 
gusted  by  what  she  (enlightened  creature !)  termed  mauvaise 
lionte,  false  delicacy,  and  unphilosophical  ignorance.  Mrs. 
Spiffard  was  neither  a  blue,  nor  a  Yankee,  and  therefore  was 
treated  with  indulgent  condescending  politeness ;  a  mode  of 
treatment  sometimes  felt  as  insult:  not  so  in  this  instance. 
Being  countrywomen,  there  was  a  bond  of  union  which  contin 
ued  unimpaired  when  the  bonds  were  all  broken  which  united 
Mrs.  Lovedog  and  the  other  females  of  the  village.  Mrs.  Spif 
fard,  though  she  had  conformed,  by  degrees,  to  the  mode  of  those 
among  whom  she  had  been  thrown,  was  pleased  to  find  that 
bold — and  as  we  think,  indelicate  style  of  conversation  and 
choice  of  subject  in  Mrs.  Lovedog,  to  which  she  had  been  ac 
customed  at  home.  She  was  become,  in  most  things,  a  disciple  of 
the  dashing  female  philosopher  ;  but  at  length  Spiffard  became 
dissatisfied  ;  for  he  found  that  the  learned  lady  prescribed 
ether  and  laudanum  to  his  wife  as  well  as  materialism  and 
irreligion. 


Jl  Sporting  Gentleman,  and  a  Philosophic  Lady.         55 

There  are  many,  male  and  female,  who,  living  in  what  are 
called  Christian  countries,  have  no  notion  of  the  essence  of 
Christianity.  Many  think  only,  (when  they  think  at  all,  on  the 
subject)  of  abuses  practised  by  nominal  Christians.  They  are 
taught  to  abhor  the  actions  and  teachings  of  wolves  in  sheep's 
clothing,  and  to  cry  "  all  is  false."  There  are  many  again,  who 
admit  that  the  lessons  and  life  of  the  author  of  Christianity  are 
truly  admirable.  If  they  would  believe  and  imitate  that  life  and 
teaching,  we  should  not  deny  them  a  place  among  Christians, 
whatever  name  they  may  assume.  Mrs.  Lovedog  could  talk 
of  the  beauty  of  that  life  and  that  teaching,  as  of  an  admirable 
fiction — she  neither  believed,  nor  felt.  Her  husband  hated 
priests,  because  he  had  paid  tithes.  He  had  been  taught  some 
thing  at  school  about  Moses  and  Christ,  but  had  forgotten 
whether  they  were  racers  or  pointers. 

The  female  philosopher  having  discovered  that  her  neighbours 
were  not  unsophisticated  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  ef  art 
Utopian  Arcadia,  adopted  an  opinion  on  the  other  extreme,  and 
concluded  that  they  were  all  sharpers  or  thieves.  This  led  to 
conduct  which  sometimes  produced  odd  results,  and  often  cover 
ed  her  with  ridicule. 

The  servants  she  brought  from  England  soon  left  her  in  pur 
suit  of  that  independence  which  they  saw  others  all  around  them 
enjoying,  or  anticipating.  Help  she  could  not  tolerate,  nor 
could  the  yeomen's  daughters  tolerate  her  manners  or  caprices  ; 
neither  would  they  condescend  to  be  servants.  The  name,  and 
state  of  servitude  had  been  made  vile  in  America  by  the  English 
traffic  in  African  slaves*  and  the  English  policy  in  attempting  to 
poison  their  colonies  with  the  convicted  thieves  and  other  out 
casts  of  their  prisons.  Mrs.  Lovedog  had  been  reduced  to  the 
pitiful  establishment  of  an  olcf  negress  as  a  cook,  and  a  little 
girl  from  a  neighbouring  settlement,-  whose  parents  had  on  over 
flowing  log-house ;  and  were  persuaded  that  the  English  lady 
would  instruct  the  girl  and  treat  her  as  a  companion,  or  child  of 
the  family.  Never  were  expectations  less  realized.  Poor  little 
Sophy  was  a  perfect  slave  to  this  lover  of  Utopian  liberty  ;  and 
was  taught  little  else,  than  to  tremble  in  the  presence  of  this 
fair  disciple  of  universal  benevolence. 

Nothing  went  according  to  previous  anticipation  in  this  afflu 
ent  family,  who  were  following  their  own  unshackled  wishes  in 
pursuit  of  happiness,  but  never  suspected  that  the  road  to  hap 
piness  was  pointed  out  on  a  way-post  in  large  letters,  u  Love 
God  and  your  neighbour." 

It  happened  one  day  that  a  sturdy  yeoman,  who  had  a  territory 


56         A  Sporting  Gentleman,  and  a  Philosophic  Lady* 

on  the  other  side  of  the  lake,  much  more  extensive  than  that 
of  many  a  German  sovereign,  having  taken  more  fish  in  his  net 
than  he  wanted  for  his  family  and  immediate  neighbours,  cross 
ed  over  to  Spiffard-town  to  find  a  market  for  the  surplus,  and 
with  the  produce  buy  tea  and  sugar, — for  although  princely  in 
territory,  his  treasury  was  not  filled  by  the  labour  of  slaves  or 
subjects.  He  was  directed  to  Lovedog's  house  ;  knocked  : 
*vas  refused  entrance  at  the  street  door?  and  told  to  go  round 
to  the  kitchen.  Several  messages  and  replies,  reiterations,  rep 
lications  and  rejoinders,  through  the  medium  of  momo  Dinah 
and  Sophy,  had  passed  and  repassed  between  the  Yankee  and 
the  lady,  until  at  length  little  Sophy  came  to  inquire,  from  the 
learned  lady,  "  if  the  fish  were  salt-water  fish  ?" 

This  question  excited  the  loud  laughter  of  both  the  farmer 
and  the  black  cook. 

"  Who  eber  hear  of  such  a  ting  in  Varmount,"  said  Dinah. 

"  O  dang  it,  she's  quizzing  me,"  said  the  farmer.  And  he  took 
his  basket  of  salmon-trout,  and  half  laughing,  half  offended,  he 
trudged  off,  determined  to  give,  or  sell,  or  dicker,  the  fish  at  his 
friend  Spiffard's. 

"  Well  Sophy  !  What  does  he  say  ?  Are  they  from  the  ocean?" 

"  Ma'am?"  said  the  timid  girl,  who  had  never  heard  the  word 
before. 

"  Are  they  salt-water  fish,  child  ?  WTiat  is  his  answer  ?? 

"  He  said  you  were  quizzing  him." 

"  I  do  not  treat  such  folks  with  that  familiarity.  Tell  him  to 
leave  three  or  four  with  the  cook,  and  call  on  Mr.  Lovedog  for 
the  money." 

"  He's  gone,  Ma'am,'r 

"  Gone  !  He  must  have  come  with  some  sinister  purpose  I" 

tk  He  only  come  with  the  fish,  Ma'am." 

"  Tell  Diana  to  see  that  the  spoons  are  all  safe — and  the 
silver  forks — and  the  silver  handled  carving-knife  that  she  took 
a  few  minutes  ago  from  the  knife-case." 

Sophy  went  to  the  kitchen.  The' lady  resumed  her  studies. 
She  was  reading  Zimmerman  on  solitude.  "  Charming  writer  ! 
what  a  soothing  quiet  he  sheds  over  the  soul !  All  perturba 
tion  ceases  I  And  the  stormy  passions  which  assail  us  in  the 
great  world  are  put  to  rest  forever  !" 

Sophy  returned  with  a  report  which  tested  the  power  of  Zim 
merman.  A  report  confirming  former  opinions  of  the  dishonest 
propensities  of  the  corrupted  and  debased  population  she  had 
been  enticed  to  trust  herself  among. 

"  0  solitude  !  how  tranquilizing  thy  influence  to  the  lover  of 


A  Sporting  Gentleman,  and  a  Philosophic  Lady.         57 

unsophisticated  nature  !  Well  child  !  What  have  you  to  say?" 
"  Momo  Dinah  says  she  can't  find  the  carving  knife." 
The  old  negress,  wanting  pot-herbs,  had  taken  the  knife  as 
the  first  trenchant  instrument  she  could  lay  her  hand  uponr  and 
having  accomplished  her  purpose,  left  it  in  the  garden  ;  she  now 
looked  for  it  in  every  other  place  she  could  think  of. 

"  I  thought  as  much  !  Sophy !  run  after  the  man !  He's  a 
thief !  Tell  him  to  bring  back  my  carving-knife  ! — Why  do  you 
stand  gazing  like  an  idiot !  Run  !  instantly  !  Where  is  there  a 
constable  ?  Why  do  you  stop  ? — Run  ! — bring  him  back !" 

The  girl,  who  feared  the  lady  more  than  she  did  any  of  her 
own  country  folk,  after  recovering  from  her  surprise,  darted  off 
in  pursuit,,  and  soon*  overtook  the  heavy  trudging  yeoman,,  who 
was  every  now  and  then  ejaculating,  "-Well ! — after  all !  these 
old-country  folk  are  more  queer  than  cute.  Salt  water  fish  up 
here  in  the  green  mountains  !" 

"  Mister!"  shouted  Sophy  as  she  drew  near.  "I  don't  know 
your  namev  sir !" — 

"  No — 1  suppose  not,"  and  he  put  down  his  basket  of  fish. 
"  My  name's  Bloodgood.  Well,. my  child,  and  what  would  you 
have  with  me-? — Why  you  are  out  of  breath  with  running.  Does 
the  fine  lady  want  some  lobsters  ?  You  are  a  nice  little  girl,?'  he 
continued,,as  he  smiled  and  patted  her  curly  head, .**  are  y out 
from  the  old  country  too  ?  I  have  half  a  dozen  at  home,  and 
not  one  as  pretty  as  you."1 

"  Mrs*  ILovedog — sir — "and  the  child  stopped — partly  from 
want  of  breath,  and  partly  from  shame  and  reluctance  to  deliver 
her  message — for  she  would  as  soon  have  suspected  the  parson 
of  stealing,  as  any  other  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  neighbourhood. 

"  Ha  ha  ha !  salt  water  fish  for  Mrs.  Lovedbg  !  If  she  wants 
the  fish  she  must  come  arter  um — fresh  or  salt !" 

"  She  says,  sir — she  says — you  must  bring  back — " 

"  Must !  No,  no  I'll  be  dang'd  if  I  do.  I  am  not  one  of 
your  brook  trout  to  be  played  back  and  forth  with  a  hair  line  as 
her  husband  catches  um.  I  am  not  angry  with  you,  my  dear — 
but  the  fish  won't  bite  again." 

"  She  says,  sir — you  must  bring  back  the  carving-knife*" 

44  The  what  ?» 

"  The  carving-knife,  sir." 

My  American  readers  will  understand^  the  feelings  of  the 
Green  Mountain  yeoman,  when  the  thought  occurred  that  he 
was  suspected  of  being  a  thief. — He  repeated  several  times  the 
words  "  carving-knife,"  before_he  formed  any  conception  that  he 
had  been  accused  of  stealing.  "  When  he  understood  the  mes- 

5* 


58         Jl  Sporting  Gentleman,  and  a  Philosophic  Lady. 

sage,  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face  and  he  shouted  in  a  voice  of 
thunder,  "  What !  Does  she  take  me  for  a  thief?" 

Sophy  frightened,  answered,  u  Yes,  sirT"  and  made  one  of  her 
best  curtseys. 

"  Well,  that's  too  good  !  Don't  be  frightened*  child  !  If  her 
husband  ! — Don't  be  scar't ! — Go  back  and  tell  her,  she  may 
go  to — England."  And  so  saying,  Bloodgood  took  up  his  bas 
ket,  turned  and  trudged  on  again  towards  Spiffard's,  rather  sul 
lenly — but  SQon  began  to  laugh.  "  WTell,  I  will  be  the  first  to 
tell  squire  Spiff'ard  of  this,  however  \  A  thief  ! — Steal !  a  car 
ving-knife  !  Why  the  woman's  mad  !" 

Poor  Sophy  returned  with  the  message  of,  "  He  says, 
ma'am — " 

"  WThere's  the  knife  ?" 

"  He  says,  Ma'am, — you  may  go  to  England." 

Just  then  Lovedog  with  his  pointers  at  his  heels  and  his  game 
bag  full  of  woodcock,  returned  froin  the  chase.  He  had  come 
from  an  opposite  direction  to  that  yeoman  Bloodgood  had  taken. 
He  was  tired — but  there  was  no  rest  for  him.  He  "  must  go," 
so  said  his  wife,  "  to  Spiffard's,  and  take  measures  to  apprehend 
the  thief  of  the  carving-knife." 

What  would  have  been  the  result  of  the  meeting  under  such 
circumstances,  between  the  English  sportsman  and  the  Yankee 
yeoman^  we  will-  not  pretend  to  say.  May  strife  never  again 
arm  the  son  of  Old  England  and  the  New  England  man  against 
each  other !  The  trial  of  valour  was  not  now  destined  to  be  made, 
for  happily,  Dinah,  wanting  more  pot-herbs  for  her  cookery, 
took  another  knife,  and,  as  Shakspeare  says,  "  shooting  another 
bolt  the  self-same  way,"  she  found  the  first.  That  is,  carrying 
a  second  knife  to  the  parsley  bed,  she  found  the  first  where  she 
had  left  it.* 

Such,  sometimes,  English  men  and  English  women  appear 
amongst  Yankees.  So  they  torment  themselves,  and  are  laugh 
ed  at  by  those  around  them — and  then  they  go  home,  and  the 
learned  ladies  write  books,  (Mrs.  Lovedog  published  three  vol 
umes)  to  show,  that  men,  where  all  men  have  equal  rights,  (and 
are  not  divided  into  the  two  European  classes  of  the  oppressors 
and  the  oppressed,  the  many  and  the  few,)  their  manners  and 
pursuits  are  not  the  same  as  in  Europe  ;  and  to  show,  above  all 
things,  their  own  ignorance.  Surely,  every  thinking  mind  must 
know  that  where  none  are  exclusively  the  inheritors  of  riches  ; 


*  This  incident  is  founded  on  fact. 


Jl  Sporting  Gentleman,  and  a  Philosophic  Lady.         59 

where  none  are  in  consequence  of  birth  exclusively  the  highly 
educated  ;  but,  where  neither  honours  nor  riches  are  hereditary, 
and  the  roads  to  wealth  and  the  highest  offices  are  open  to  all 
equally  ;  the  universal  exertion  for  acquirement,  whether  of  for 
tune,  fame,  or  official  station,  must  cause  a  greater  equality  on 
a  higher  level  for  the  mass  of  the  people  ;  and  must  give  to  so 
ciety  a  greater  proportion  of  those  who  attain  high  intellectual 
powers  and  extensive  knowledge,  than  in  monarchies  and  aris 
tocracies.  It  will  be  said,  perhaps,  that  the  inheritors  of  fortune 
have  a  fairer  starting  post  for  the  race,  either  of  intellectual  im 
provement,  or  official  rank — but  can  it  be  a  question  which  state 
of  society  tends  most  to  general  improvement  and  national 
happiness  1 

"  But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  memoirs  of  Zebediah 
SpifTard '?"  Reader,  you  must  not  only  be  gentle  and  courteous, 
but  patient.  If  you  are  used  to  novel  reading,  you  must  know 
that  you  have  waded  through  many  a  tedious  introductory  page 
in  the  hope  that  all  the  present  prosing  is  necessary  tof  and  will 
give  clearness  and  additional  zest  to  the  future  story.  The 
pl5t  must  be  made  intricate  to  be  interesting,  and  what  appears 
dull  now,  will  be  bright  as  a  sun-ray  at  the  unravelling.  We 
have  our  plot  too.  Trust  us  now ;  we  will  pay  hereafter — if 
we  can. 

To  conclude  the  history  of  the  Lovedogs  (who  are  rather  ex 
ceptions  to,  than  examples  of,  the  characters  of  English  gentle 
men  and  ladies) — the  sagacious  reader  will  readily  believe  that 
they  did  not  settle  at  Spiffard-town.  The  lady,  as  we  have  seen, 
had  been  disappointed  in  all  her  expectations  ;  and  the  gentle 
man,  who  had  at  first  been  ddighted  with  the  free  range  of  un 
limited  sporting  ground,  and  the  novelty  presented  by  the  game 
of  another  hemispherer  now  bega-rr  to  sigh  for  the  stubble  fields 
enclosed  by  hedge  rows,  where  his  dogs  were  always  in  view, 
one  backing  the  other  on  the  scent  of  the  covey — for  the  phea 
sant  park,  the  fox  hunt,  the  race-course,  the  cock-pit,  the  boxer's 
ring,  and  all  the  many  joys  of  his  youth,- — in  short,  this  happy 
pair  sold  off  in  disgust,,  removed  to  Connecticut — thence  to 
New-York — and  thence  they  returned  home,  the  lady  to  write 
books  on  American  manners,  the  gentleman  to  pay  tithes  and 
poor-rates,  hunt,  set  up  for  parliament,  and  rail  on  republican 
institutions. 

In  the  meantime,  Zeb,  our  hero,  grew  ;  as  is  common  with 
other  heroes  between  the  age  of  ten  and  twenty,  and  he  receiv 
ed  that  common  unheroic  kind  of  education  which  resulted  from 
his  father's  circumstances,  and  the  circumstances  of  the  country 


60  We  go  from  home  to  Boston. 

at  that  time.  He  learned  from  Master  McNorton,  a  teacher 
from  the  north  of  Ireland,  to  read  without  the  eastern  accentua 
tion  or  orthoepy,  and  was  prevented,  by  his  out-o-door  prac 
tice  in  language,  from  acquiring  a  slight  touch  of  the  brogue 
which  adhered  pertinaciously  to-  his-  teacher's  tongue.  He  was 
taught  to  write  a  decent  hand  (there  were  then  no  Wriffards  or 
other  doctors,  native  or  foreign,*  travelling  through  the  land  to 
teach  elegant  penmanship).  He  was  taught  to  cipher  as  far  as 
the  rule  of  three  ;  and  at  the  same  time  he  learned  to  take  care 
of  the  cattle,  the  horses  and  the  sheep.  He  could  run  barefoot 
into  the  meadow  and  halter  a  horse,  first  enticing  him  within 
striking  distance  by  holding  out  an  ear  of  corn,  he  would  then 
mount  him  by  placing  his  toe  on  the  joint  of  sorrel's  hind  leg — 
"  making  stepping  stonesr"  as  Master  McNorton  said,  "  of  the 
poor  brute's  bones  to  get  a  saddle-sate  on  his  bare  back" — and 
he  could  then,  without  saddle  or  bridler  ride  as  fearlessly  through 
woods  or  over  rocks,  as  a  Virginia  negro,  or  a  wild  Arab. 

Such  were  the  attainments  of  Zebediah  Spiffard,  and  he  might 
have  gone  on  in  the  steps  of  his  father,  that  is — stepped  from 
Vermont  to  Ohio,  or  further ;  emigrating,,  and  clearing,  and 
settling,  arid  pulling  up  stakes,,  and  emigrating  again  ;  or  he 
might  have  founded  another  Spiifard-town  in  the  valley  of  the 
Mississippi,  and  filled  the  great  house  of  the  founder  with  little 
Zebs  and  Jerrys,  never  arriving  at  the  prodigious  honour  of  being 
the  hero  of  a  bookr.but  for  certain  circumstances,, which  though 
still  introductory,  must  be  told  before  we  can?  get  at  the  marrow 
of  our  story. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

We  go  from  Home  to  Boston. 

"A  barefoot  pilgrim  on  a  flinty  world." — Unknown  Play. 

"O  that  clear  honour  was  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer !" 

"  I  never  knew  so  young  a  body  with  so  old  a  head."— Shakspeare. 

IT  is  not  a  new  observation  that  a  man's  destination  for  life  is 
often  fixed  at  an  age  when  animal  spirits  are  most  abundant, 
and  reason  most  powerless.  Impressions  then  made  are  indel 
ible,  and  habits  are  acquired  which  never,  or  at  least  not  without 
great  trouble  and  pain,  can  be  counteracted  or  shaken  off.  At 
this  perilous  period  of  man's  life  our  hero  was  sent  from  home. 


We  go  from  home  to  Boston.  61 

A  raw  boy  of  sixteen,  who  had  never  been  out  of  the  precincts 
of  Spiflfard-town,  or  seen  man  greater  than  squire  Spifiard,  was 
suddenly  transported  to  the  famous  metropolis  of  Massachusetts. 

In  the  town  of  Boston,  celebrated  as  the  cradle,  if  not  the 
birth-place,  of  American  independence,  lived  the  uncle  of  Zeb 
Spiff  (as  his  schoolmates  persisted  in  calling  him,  and  as  his 
intimates  always  called  him)  Mr.  Abraham  Spiffard,  who  having 
attained  the  mature  age  of  sixty-eight  in  a  state  of  single  blessed- 
nessr  and  having  made  his  property  procreate  as  fast  a.s  Jacob's 
flocks  or  Shylock's  ducats,  now  looked  about  him  for  an  hei/, 
and  bethought  him  of  his  long-neglected  brother,  who  had  tra 
velled  to  the  wilderness  of  Vermont  at  his  father's  death  on 
finding  himself  left  nearly  penniless  by  the  will — according  to 
the  praiseworthy  usage  of  the  dvar  mother  country,  and  the  still 
more  praiseworthy  motive — a  desire  to  support  the  name  of 
Spiffard  by  devising  his  property  to  the  elder  born  son.  Th« 
brothers  had  not  met  since  Jeremiah  married  the  beautiful 
Louisa  Atherton.  Abraham  had  at  this  time  a  two-fold  motive 
for  thinking  of  one  of  his  brother's  children  as  an  heir.  He, 
too,  wished  to  keep  up  the  august  family  name  :  and  he  had  a 
remaining  sense  of  justice — a  sense  which  is  inherent  with  and 
strong  in  every  man,  if  not  stifled  by  worldliness — and  that  sense 
of  justice  told  him,  that  every  law  or  custom  founded  on  a  mis 
called  right  of  primogeniture^  is  contrary  to  the  law  of  nature 
and  of  God ;  and  consequently,-  that  his  younger  brother  had 
been  wronged,  and  he  himself  had  been  living  and  thriving  on 
the  fruits  of  injustice.  He  therefore  wrote  to  his  brother,  de 
siring  him  to  send  his  eldest  boy  (for  still  the  old  leaven  stuck 
to  himr  and  the  first-born  must  have  preference)  promising  to 
educate  and  adopt  him  as  his  own.  This  was  an  opening  not  to 
be  neglected,  and  Zeb  was  accordingly  fitted  out  for  a  jouraey 
to  the  far-famed  town  of  Boston. 

We  musty  before  taking  our  hero  from  home,  mention  one 
circumstance,-  which  had  affected  the  domestic  happiness  of 
Squire  Spiffard's  family,  and  made  an  impression  upon  little 
Zebediah  that  moulded  his  character  into  the  form  which  our 
readers  will  find  displayed,  as  we  proceed  with  his  story — fixing 
within  him  an  image  that  was  through  his  future  life  ever  pre 
sent  to  his  mind,  and  was  the  moving  cause  of  thought  and 
action.  The  scenes  he  had  witnessed  in  his  father's  household, 
mingled  with  all  his  ideas  of  his  fellow-creatures,  coloured  all 
the  future  scenes  of  his  existence,  and  were  the  springs  which 
impelled  him  in  his  course  through  his  journey,  until  they  were 
obliterated  by  the  hand  of  death. 


62  We  go  from  home  to  Boston. 

We  approach  most  unwillingly  to  this  part  of  our  subject. 
To  draw  aside  the  decent  veil  that  hides  domestic  misery,  though 
that  misery  proceeds  from  an  accidental  cause,  is  an  irksome 
task;  but  to  expose  the  failings  of  one  of  that  lovely  sex  from 
which  we  have  derived  all  the  choice  blessings  of  life,  is  inex 
pressibly  painful.  But  we  owe  it  to  truth  and  to  the  world,  for 
our  hero's  character  and  actions  would  be  inexplicable  if  we 
did  not  give  our  readers  this  key  to  them. 

It  has  been  said  that  Mrs.  Spiffard,  the  beautiful  London 
lady,  was  discontented,  although  placed  in  the  paradise  of  Spif 
fard  town.  She  regretted  her  banishment  from  her  dear  native 
land.  And  who  can  blame  her  ?  She  had  there  enjoyed 
luxuries  of  which  she  was  here  deprived,  and  she  had  there 
enjoyed  youth*  beauty  and  flattery.  She  could  not  but  feel, 
that  if  she  returned,  she  would  find  the  same  delightful  articles 
— for  in  her  mind  they  were  associated  with  the  place.  In  de 
spite  of  reason  or  even  of  experience,  the  returning  wanderer 
still  expects  to  find  in  home,  the  home  of  his  youth. 

Mrs.  Spiffard's  health  declined  in  proportion  as  she  filled  her 
husband's  house  with  health  and  life  in  the  shape  of  little  Yan 
kees.  Her  countrywoman,  Mrs.  Lovedog,  had  taught  her  that 
ether  and  opium  were  most  pleasant,  and  she  said  innocent 
remedies  for  low  spirits.  In  time  other  stimulants  were  resorted 
to,  "  for  it  was  necessary,"  as  has  more  than  once  been  said 
in  excuse  for  such  acknowledged  weakness,  "  to  change  the 
current  of  her  ideas,  or  she  would  go  mad."  The  current  was 
changed  ;  but  it  was  only  to  increase,  not  remedy  ill — to  save 
her  from  the  apprehension  of  that  madness  we  pity  and  deplore, 
with  sympathy  in  nature's  frailty,  and  consign  her  to  that  which 
we  despise  and  turn  from  with  disgust. 

Can  any  situation  in  life  be  so  deplorable  as  that  of  a  husband 
under  such  circumstances  ? — Yes.  We  shall  see  that  that  of  a 
wife,  whose  husband  is  a  victim  to  this  vice,  is  even  worse. 
Our  business  at  present  is  with  the  first  case.  To  see  his  neg 
lected  children  gazing  with  expressions  varied  according  to 
their  respective  ages  on  the  idiotic  countenance  and  inconsistent 

behaviour  of  their  mother,,  to nor  we  will  not  enter  into  the 

disgusting  detail.  Spiffard  behaved  like  a  good  and  discreet — 
a  humane  and  determined  man.  He  did  not  invite  (as  was  his 
wish)  his  friends  or  strangers  to  his  house ;  his  plea  was  his 
wife's  indisposition.  He  did  not  take  her  abroad ;  for  he  dreaded 
to  expose  her.  He  did  not  pretend  to  excuse  her,  when  not 
withstanding  his  care  she  was  exposed ;  nor  did  he  by  false 
hoods  outrage  the  good  sense  of  his  acquaintance.  But  it  is 


We  go  from  home  to  Boston.  63 

the  effect  which  this  disgraceful  conduct  in  a  mother  had  upon 
his  eldest  son,  that  is  our  only  object  in  recording  it ;  and  that 
effect  was  seen,  though  not  understood,  in  all  he  said  or  did  to 
the  end  of  his  life. 

Asa  child  it  was  long  before  he  could  comprehend  the  nature 
of  behaviour,  in  his  mother,  which  was  apparently  causeless ;  and 
was  so  unlike  that  of  other  females.  When  the  truth  burst  upon 
him,  it  produced  a  revolution  in  his  feelings  that  seemed  to 
transport  him  from  infancy  to  intellectual  manhood — made  him 
observant  and  thoughtful,  instead  of  joyous  and  careless — and 
in  short,  was  quickly  indicated  by  appearances  inconsistent  with 
his  age  and  previous  sprightly  disposition.  The  further  he  ad 
vanced  in  life  and  became  capable  of  appreciating  his  mother's 
degradation  and  his  father's  misery,  the  more  intense  were  his 
feelings  until  they  became  almost  insupportable.  He  thought 
as  constantly  upon  the  torturing  subject  as  the  nature  of  mind 
will  permit ;  for  happily  we  are  so  constructed  that  one  unbroken 
chain  of  thought  cannot  be  continued.  One  continuous  chain 
or  circle  of  thought  is  either  the  cause  or  the  effect  of  insanity. 
Yet  he  strove  to  banish  other  thoughts,  and  avoided  the  sports 
and  pursuits  incident  to  his  happy  ago.  He  could  not 
speak  of  the  subject  of  his  meditations.  There  were  none 
to  whom  the  deep  coloured  and  indefinable  images  which  poured 
upon  his  mind  could  be  communicated  in  conversation.  He 
feared  lest  his  father  should  see  that  he  noticed  and  understood 
the  cause  of  his  woe.  He  became  a  recluse.  Always  devoted 
to  books,,  although  reading  without  plan  and  almost  without 
improvement,  he  now  appeared  more  than  ever  studious,  and 
yet  his  mind  was  frequently  far  from  the  page  over  which  his 
eyes  wandered.  He  watched  the  behaviour  of  his  father  and 
mother  anxiously,  and  as  anxiously  avoided  the  appearance  of 
attending  to  their  conduct.  He  seemed  to  become  years  older 
as  months  passed  away,  and  to  advance  in  knowledge  as  if 
by  miracle — knowledge  gained  by  thought — self-examination — 
not  reading.  It  was  a  knowledge  as  bitter  as  that  of  our  first 
parents — and  without  fault  in  him,  it  deprived  him  of  his  para 
dise,  the  joys  without  care  of  childhood.  It  is  thus  that  by  the 
undeviating  chain  of  cause  and  effect,  even  the  lot  of  the  guilt 
less  is  not  pure  good,  since  we  must  partake  of  the  good  or  ill 
of  others. 

Our  hero's  father  and  the  neighbours  thought  that  Zebediah's 
improvement  was  owing  to  his  books,  but  it  was  the  intense 
operation  of  a  vigorous  mind  set  in  action  by  one  circumstance, 
which  affected  him  deeply  and  mysteriously;  one  spring,  which 


64  We  go  from  home  to  Boston. 

became  the  mainspring  of  his  life  and  actions  ;  and  which 
caused  observation,  comparison  and  combination  in  the  boy,  far 
beyond  his  years — in  the  man,  a  state  of  mind  nearly  mono- 
maniacal. 

When  he  was  told  1hat  his  uncle  had  sent  for  him,  the  first 
sensation  was  joyous.  He  felt  as  if  he  should  escape  from 
what  was  ever  present  to  his  imagination  ;  his  mother's  infirmity 
and  his  father's  misery.  But  soon  his  heart  sunk,  and  he  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  leaving  the  object  which,  as  if  by  a 
power  of  fascination,  attracted  his  unceasing  attention,  and 
bound  him  to  the  spot — the  object  to  which  his  eyes  were  con 
stantly  turned,  as  it  is  said  the  poor  bird  cannot  be  diverted 
from  its  gaze  on  the  hateful  serpent  doomed  to  destroy  it. 
These  feelings  however  soon  passed  away,  and  the  wish  for 
change  prevailed.  He  was  scarce  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  at 
that  time  of  life  when  all  abroad  is  new,  fresh  and  refreshing — 
when  even  the  circulation  of  the  blood  is  pleasure,  and  when  it 
is  impossible,  if  in  health,  to  be  long  unhappy — at  such  an  age, 
to  see  the  wonders  of  the  great  city  and  become  one  in  a  new 
and  loftier  state  of  existence,  raised  hopes  and  images  which, 
though  undefined,  made  him  impatient  to  obey  the  summons. 
The  very  consciousness  of  being  alive — as  youth  is  alive — is 
happiness ;  and  though  clouds  and  storms  cross  the  morning  of 
life,  they  must  pass  away  quickly,  and  the  sunny  beams  of  hope 
and  joy  are  sure  to  succeed. 

Before  we  turn  Zeb  out  upon  the  great  world  of  Boston,  ws 
will  describe  his  person,  that  the  reader,  who  we  feel  assured 
will  go  with  him,  may  have  a  clearer  idea  of  his  travelling  com 
panion.  We  have  seen  what  his  appearance  was  at  five  and 
twenty,  but  we  cannot  do  him  justice,  or  justice  to  our  story, 
without  a  full  description  of  his  beauties  at  sixteen. 

Zeb  was  not  only  the  oldest  but  the  ugliest  of  his  father's 
children ;  and  was  formed  as  if  in  direct  opposition  to  the  re 
ceived  notions  of  Yankee  proportion  and  symmetry.  At  the 
period  of  which  we  speak,  he  was  exactly  five  feet  two  inches 
in  height,  and  from  the  strong  knitting  of  his  joints,  and  the  un 
common  breadth  as  well  as  muscularity  of  his  whole  person,  it 
might  have  been  judged  that  he  never  would  attain  a  greater 
altitude  ;  but  happily,  a  few  years  after,  a  hard  fit  of  fever-and- 
ague  shook  him  so  long,  that  he  became  some  inches  longer. 
Although  remarkably  square  built  and  powerful  in  muscle,  he, 
yet  looked  meagre.  His  knees  were  rather  bowed  outwards,, 
always  a  mark  of  firmness  on  the  feet ;  his  joints  were  all  large,' 
but  his  limbs  well  proportioned  to  his  body.  His  head  was' 


We  go  from  home  to  Boston*  65 

large,  his  visage  long,  his  nose  thin,  high  and  hooked  (some 
times  called  Roman  and  sometimes  parrot-billed).  His  eyes 
were  dark  hazel,  the  iris  small,  the  balls  very  large  and  promi 
nent,  and  the  white  of  the  eye  disproportionably  great ;  the 
upper  lids  covered  the  iris  so  as  to  give  the  idea  of  a  West 
India  turtle.  His  mouth  was  wide,  and  garnished  with  strong 
teeth,  and  his  chin  with  the  parts  adjacent,  assumed  the  appear 
ance  vulgarly  called  wapper-jaw'd.  His  beard  in  its  incipient 
and  downy  state,  promised  to  be  what  Shakspeare  calls 
"  cane-coloured."  A  shock  of  coarse  unyielding  hair  capp'd 
this  unpromising  physiognomy  with  deviously  diverging  locks, 
in  colours  rather  too  red  to  be  called  carotty.  With  all  this 
picturesque  diversity — this  variety  of  curve  and  line  and  angle, 
in  feature  and  in  figure,  there  was  an  archness,  an  audacity, 
and  an  expression  of  good  nature  in  Zeb,  that  gained  him  a 
firmer  footing  in  the  good  will  of  those  he  happened  to  be 
thrown  among,  than  many  a  smoother  form  and  face  could 
boast.  His  was  an  attractive  figure.  It  did  not  pass  unno 
ticed  in  a  crowd.  The  eye  once  fixed  on  such  a  face  was 
not  rapidly  withdrawn  ;  and  when  Zeb,  in  after  times  found 
the  looks  of  beauty  rivetted  on  his  form  and  features,  he 
enjoyed  in  return  the  privilege  of  gazing  on  sparkling  eyes 
fixed  unconsciously  on  his  odd  physiognomy — vermeil  lips 
half  opened  by  surprise — and  the  happy  consciousness  of  being 
an  object  of  admiration,  for  such  he  certainly  was.  A  female 
feels  ashamed  to  gaze  at  a  pretty  fellow  ;  but  no  one  thought 
it  any  harm  to  look  at  Zeb  Spiff. 

The  aversion  our  hero  felt  to  leaving  home  and  his  beloved 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  schoolfellows,  all  endeared  by  scenes 
of  joy  and,  in  years  long  past,  by  scenes  of  strife,  was  now  ex 
changed  for  a  desire  to  see  the  world.  Curiosity  and  ambition 
triumphed  so  far  over  his  tender  feelings,  that  he  became  im 
patient  for  the  time  of  departure  to  arrive.  The  evening  pre 
vious  to  that  important  day  which  consigned  our  Zebediah 
Spiffard  to  the  stage  driver  and  the  world,  his  father  took  him 
apart,  and  bestowed  on  him  a  roll  of  hard  dollars,  and  a  lecture, 
longer  and  quite  as  heavy,  upon  his  future  conduct  in  life. 
Zeb  afterwards  said  that  it  was  considerable  lengthy  ;  but  we 
know  that  it  was  cut  short  by  a  loud  snore  unconsciously 
sounded  from  the  open  mouth  and  nostrils  of  the  patient,  who 
remembered  nothing  his  father  had  said  except  that  in  great 
towns  young  men  were  likely  to  be  beset  by  temptations  of 
various  kinds,  especially  in  the  form  of  beautiful  young  women, 
who  might  distract  his  attention  from  business  and  interrupt  his 

VOL.  i.  6 


66  We  go  from  home  to  Boston* 

studies.  Strange  as  it  may  appear,  our  hero  felt  no  alarm  iii 
looking  forward  to  the  dangers  that  awaited  him — nay  he  even 
became  curious  and  anxious  to  know  how  these  allurements 
would  affect  him,  and  to  try  his  strength  against  temptation. 
Every  enticement  that  the  glass,  however  filled,  could  offer,  he 
was  amply  prepared  to  repel ;  and  he  had  a  fund  of  good  sense 
and  sound  morality  to  oppose  to  allurements  which  might  war 
with  duty. 

We  have  nothing  of  importance  to  record  of  our  pilgrim 
until  he  arrived  at  the  end  of  his  journey,  and  set  foot  in  the 
famous  town  of  Boston.  As  the  scenes  and  objects  connected 
with  that  image,  the  contemplation  of  which  had  formed  as  it 
were  the  key-stone  of  his  character,  and  had  cast  a  shade  over 
all  his  joys — as  these  objects  were  left  behind,  other  associa 
tions  were  created  by  the  change,  and  his  whole  train  of  thought 
and  feeling  received  a  new  impulse  and  a  new  direction.  He 
still  carried  the  arrow  with  him,  but  it  ceased  for  a  time  to  give 
pain,  or  control  thought  or  action. 

He  passed  through  Charlestown  without  knowing  that  close 
at  his  left  hand  were  the  far-famed  hills  of  Bunker  and  Breed's. 
He  was  rattled  over  the  bridge,  and  plunged  among  the  intrica 
cies  of  "  North-end,"  his  senses  almost  overpowered  by  the 
awful  delight  which  the  rapid  succession  of  new  objects  pre 
sented  by  a  dim  light  on  entering  a  great  city  for  the  first  time, 
and  the  confused  anticipations  of  the  new  life  he  was  about  to 
enter  into  :  while  in  silent  expectation  he  awaited  the  long  de 
layed  moment  when  the  coach  would  stop  and  deposit  him,  he 
knew  not  where,  to  be  received  he  knew  riot  how.  The  coach 
did  at  length  stop  at  an  inn  near  the  market.  The  passengers 
eagerly  left  the  vehicle  and  each  other,  and  Zeb  found  himself 
about  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the  seventh  of  November, 
in  the  bar  room  of  the  stage  house.  He  knew  no  one — no 
one  knew  him — no  one  heeded  him. 

His  trunk  was  thrown  into  the  door.  He  looked  around  for 
some  one  of  his  fellow  passengers  of  whom  he  might  inquire 
his  way  to  his  uncle's ;  but  all  were  already  gone ;  each  one 
his  own  way,  unmindful  of  the  other  ;  and  poor  Zeb  felt  for  a 
moment  that  he  was  alone  in  the  world.  This  was  but  a  tran 
sient  feeling  ;  his  mind  and  body  were  endowed  with  an  elas 
ticity  fitted  to  meet  circumstances,  and  boldly  confront  them. 

He  saw  a  person  busily  dealing  out  liquor  at  the  bar,  and 
approached  to  make  inquiry  of  him  for  direction  to  Mr.  Abra 
ham  Spiffard's,  but  he  was  surrounded  by  a  crowd  boisterously 
demanding  "  bitters — brandy — gin" — and  uttering  coarse  jests 


We  go  from  home  to  Boston*  67 

or  coarser  oaths.  The  noise — the  appearance  of  those  around 
him,  (principally  draymen,  porters,  hostlers,  and  others  of  the 
roughest  cast,  the  attendants  upon  the  market  and  the  stage 
house)  with  the  smell  of  liquors  and  tobacco  smoke,  made  the 
poor  boy's  heart  sink  a  second  time,  and  he  retired,  shrinking 
from  the  loathsome  scene,  and  sat  down  on  his  trunk  to  collect 
his  thoughts  :  his  head  was  whirling  and  dancing,  as  if  still 
feeling  the  motion  of  the  stage-coach,  and  his  heart  sickened 
at  the  scene  before  and  around  him.  He  heard  the  coach 
drive  from  the  door.  Even  this  was  like  the  departure  of  an 
acquaintance — the  last  link  that  united  him  to  home.  In  addi 
tion  to  the  disagreeable  objects  that  offended  his  physical  senses, 
his  moral  sense  was  pained  by  that  which  was  present,  and  by 
the  revival  or  awakening  of  the  spectre  that  haunted  him.  He 
thought  of  his  mother. 

This  situation,  either  of  body  or  mind,  could  not  endure 
long  with  a  boy  of  sixteen.  He  knew  he  must  not  remain 
where  he  was,  and  now  recollected,  for  the  first  time,  that  his 
father  had  given  him  a  letter,  with,  of  course,  the  address  of 
his  uncle.  It  was  locked  up  carefully  in  his  trunk.  The  first 
movement  was  to  open  his  trunk  and  seek  it :  but  the  thought 
occurred,  that  in  such  a  place  and  with  such  company,  that 
would  not  be  eligible  ;  he  had  read  of  tricks  upon  travellers. 
He  stood  undetermined,  looking  at  the  depository  of  his  worldly 
treasure  with  somewhat  of  lack-lustre  eye. 

The  suspicion  that  ill  could  be  intended  him  by  any  thing  in 
human  shape*  had  only  entered  his  mind  from  books :  and  only 
experience  can  make  the  innocent  mind  suspicious.  He  had 
read  of  deceits  and  falsehoods,  and  in  after  life  saw  and  suf 
fered  from  them,  as  all  must ;  but  suspicion  never,  even  in  after 
life,  made  a  part  of  his  character.  To  utter  any  words  but 
those  of  truth,  would  have  appeared  to  the  Green-mountain- 
boy  as  impolitic  as  it  was  absurd.  This  characteristic  always 
remained  with  him.  In  despite  of  experience,  he  never  could 
be  brought  to  suspect  his  fellow-creatures  of  deceit ;  and  in 
despite  of  the  many  inconveniences  his  frankness  occasion 
ed,  he  continued  to  love  truth  the  more  he  suffered  for  truth's 
sake.  As  a  man  is  induced  to  love  his  country  the  more  in 
consequence  of  those  miseries  he  encounters  in  her  defence. 

All  the  mental  debate  we  have  suggested,  and  much  morey 
had  passed  in  a  moment  of  time,  and  the  rumbling  of  the  coach 
wheels  had  scarcely  ceased  in  his  ears,  or  the  giddiness  occa 
sioned  by  riding,  left  his  head,  when  once  more  looking  around 
for  some  one  to  whom  he  might  apply  for  that  information  he 


68  Wt  go  from  home  to  Boston. 

had  locked  up  in  his  trunk  instead  of  his  memory,  he  saw  a 
person  near  him  whose  appearance  did  not  discourage  the 
address,  and  he  asked  this  gentleman  (for  such  he  evidently 
was)  who  happened  to  be  near  him,  where  "  Mr.  Abraham 
Spiffard  lived?" 

The  man  was  a  tall  f  thin,  upright  figure,  enveloped  in  an 
ample  blue  cloak,  clasped  under  his  chin  with  silver :  above 
the  collar  of  this  cloak  arose  on  each  side  of  his  parchment- 
coloured  face,  three  formidable  curls,  such  as  belles  sometimes 
think  ornamental  to  the  faces  of  girls  of  sixteen,  but  at  that 
period,  confined  to  the  well-powdered  wigs  of  gentlemen  of 
sixty.  This  buckram-stiff  pile  was  surmounted  by  a  large 
cocked-hat,  rather  brown  than  black — not  from  any  lack  of 
brushing.  Below  the  cloak  could  only  be  seen  high-topp'd 
shoes  arid  silver  buckles ;  both  showing  that  they  were  daily 
well  cleaned,  though  now  bespattered  with  mud  from  the  low 
and  filthy  place  in  which  the  stage-house  stood. 

'^Ican  tell  you,  my  little  man,"  was  the  old  gentleman's 
reply,,  as  he  looked  down  upon  Zeb's  queer  face,  turned  up 
towards  his  own,  with  a  slight  inclination  to  the  right,  and  a 
twist  of  the  mouth  to  the  left,  while  the  earnest  protrusion  of 
his  dark  sparkling  eyes,  and  the  honest  confidence  expressed 
by  all  his  features  in  combinationvrivetted  the  stranger's  atten 
tion  to  the  person  of  our  hero,  though  at  first  overlooked  in  his 
examination  of  the  travellers  who  had  arrived  in  the  stage. 
"And  what  may  your  business  be  with  Mr.  Abraham  Spiffard?" 

"  I  have  been  two  days  riding  from  Long-pond  in  the  Green 
Mountains,  to  come  and  pay  him  a  visit,"  said  Zeb,  "  and  I 
have  got  a  letter  from  father  to  him,  but  it  is  in  my  trunk." 

Mr.  Abraham  Spiffard^to  whom  these  words  were  addressed, 
had  come  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  stage,  kindly  anticipating 
the  wants  of  his  adopted  son.  On  finding  that  this,  strange 
figure  was  the  object  of  his  expectations,  he  stepped  back 
and  surveyed  the  odd  and  uncouth  appearance  of  the  boy 
with  mingled  sensations,  in  which  pleasure  did  not  predominate. 
He  had,  in  imagination,  seen  a  tall,  florid  lad,  rustic  to  be  sure, 
but  looking  as  vigorous,  towering,  independent,  and  fresh  as 
the  country  of  his  birth  ;  and  he  in  the  reality,  saw  a  creature 
of  diminutive  height,  pallid  complexion  and  outre  physiognomy ; 
whose  members  appeared  any  thing  rather  than  symmetrical, 
and  whove  movements  under  present  circumstances,  gave  nr»> 
indication  of  Green  Mountain  buoyancy,  for  though  our  hero 
was  in  truth  both  independent  in  mind  and  vigorous  in  body, 
his  externals  little  denoted  either ;  and  these  externals  were 
in  their  worst  dress. 


An  old  Bachelor's  home,  $c.  69 

The  uncle's  good  sense  overpowered  his  feelings  of  chagrin  ; 
and  telling  Zebediah  who  he  was,  he  welcomed  him  to  Boston, 
and  hastily  called  the  porter  of  the  inn  to  bear  the  trunk  of  the 
Green-mountain-boy  to  his  future  home.  This  done,  he 
courteously  led  his  protegee  to  his  house,  which  was  pleasantly 
situated  near  the  summit  of  Fort-hill. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

An  old   Bachelor's  house,  a   Lawyer's  office,  and  a   Play  in 
Boston. 

'''  The  principal  end  why  we  are  to  get  knowledge  here,  is  to  make  use  of 
I  it  for  the  benefit  of  ourselves  and  others  in  this  world." — Locke. 

THE  reader  doubtless  has  found  out  before  he  arrives  at 
the  present  chapter,  that  this  book  is  not  a  romance,  but  a 
story  of  every-day  life.     A  fiction,  it  is  true,  but  copied   from 
real  life.     Yet  who  does  not  know  that  the  events  of  real  life 
are  more  astounding — more  difficult  to  reconcile  to  ordinary 
reason  than  any  romance  ever  written — setting  aside  perhaps,, 
the  delightful  Arabian  Nights,  and  some  other  tales  in  which 
supernatural  agency  is  introduced  1     What  romancer  would 
have  dared  to  invent  such  stupendous  events  as  history  records 
of  the  early  crusades  1     Who  would  have  dared  to  tell  of  thou 
sands  of  children  flying  from  their  parents  and  congregating  to 
conquer  Syria   from  the  Mussulman  : — marching  unappalled 
by  difficulties  over  a  great  part  of  Europe,  without  meeting  a 
power,  moral  or  physical,  to  stop  their  progress  to  destruction 
inevitable?     What  romancer,  if  he  had  con-ceived  stzch   an 
event  as  the   western   world  "  loosened  from  its  foundations 
and  precipitated  upon  the  east,"  would  have  dared  to  describe 
what  he  had  imagined?  or  could  have  imagined,,  that  from  cen 
turies  of  war,  during  which  rapine  was-  accompanied  by  disso 
lute  manners,  and  guided  by  ignorance — and  where  famine, 
disease,  and  the   sword  destroyed  millions — the  blessings  of 
liberty,,  science  and  the  arts  would  arise  ?     But  to  recur  to 
later  times — to  the  days  yet  scarce  gone  by:  could  poet  have 
thought  in  his  wildest  dreams  of  an  adventurer  rising  up  from 
obscurity  and  binding  emperors  and  kings  in  his  chains ;   then 
sinking,  through  overweening  pride,  to  the  state  of  an  outcast 

6* 


70  Jin  old  Bachelors  house,  a  Lawyer's  office, 

from  society?  Yet  this  we  have  seen.  But  setting  history  aside, 
it  is  sufficient  for  my  purpose  to  refer  the  reader  to  the  volumes 
of  the  Causes  Celebres.  Our  story  is  a  story  of  real  life — and 
real  life  is  sufficiently  seasoned,  by  the  wonderful,  to  make  it 
interesting  to  those  who  look  for  the  racy  and  the  spicy  in  the 
pages  of  a  novelist.  Not  that  I  promise  to  spread  such  high 
seasoned  food  before  the  reader  of  these  pages. 

Abraham  Spiffard  had  commenced  his  career  in  this  mutable 
state  of  existence  as  an  attorney,  and  having  inherited  his 
father's  estate  (before  our  separation  from  Great  Britain)  by 
the  English  laws  of  primogeniture,  he  did  not,  as  is  usual, 
make  it  his  business  to  dissipate  it ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
feeling  the  comforts  as  well  as  consequence  which  property 
gave  him  among  his  neighbours,  he  determined  to  increase  the 
sources  of  such"  enviable  possessions.  He  at  first  proceeded 
slowly  and  in  the  way  of  his  profession  ;  but  his  industry  and 
invariable  attention  to  the  interests  of  his  clients,  gained  him 
practice  of  the  best  kind,  which  gave  him  an  opportunity  to 
make  purchases  of  real  estate  in  lands  and  houses,  with  advan 
tages  which  none  out  of  his  profession  could  have.  He  was 
honest,  frugal,  thriving,  and  became  a  rich  man  of  unimpeach 
able  character. 

His  establishment  was  that  of  an  old  bachelor..  A  neat  and 
well-furnished  house,  with  a  court  yard  before  it,  and  a  garden 
behind.  One  man  servant,  who  was  gardener,. hostler,  butler 
and  footman ;  and  one  elderly  female,  who  filled  the  station  of 
housekeeper,,  and  condescended  to  be  cook  and  chambermaid 
— both  natives  of  New  England,  and  both  white — constituted 
his  household.  Having  long  renounced  his  original  profession, 
Mr.  Abraham  Spiffard  thus  lived  a  life  of  retirement,  with  most 
of  the  enjoyments  which  a  mind  of  a  philosophic  inclination 
could  desire* 

As  the  uncle  had  expected  our  hero,  an  apartment  was  in 
readiness  for  him  ;  and  after  the  refreshment  of  tea  and  toast, 
by  a  cheer-ful  hickory  fire,  he  dismissed  him  to  bed  by  remark 
ing  that  he  "  was  sure  he  must  be  tired," — wisely  determining 
not  to  enter  into  an  examination  of  his  unpromising  adopted 
son  until  the  morrow. 

Being  shown  to  his  allotted  apartment  by  his  uncle,  and  left 
with  an  injunction  to  extinguish  the  candle  before  he  got  into 
bed,  Zeb  examined  attentively  every  object  about  him,  and  in 
truth  felt  much  less  sleepy  than  before  he  was  ushered  into  a 
domain  of  which  he  was  told  that  he  was  the  master,  and  be 
fore  the  restraint  of  a  strange  old  gentleman's  presence  was- 


and  a  Play  in  Boston.-  71 

removed.  He  saw  and  felt,  as  soon  as  he  entered,  that- the 
chamber  had  been  prepared  with  a  view  to  his  permanent 
residence  and  future  comfort ;  and  that  all  around  him  had  an 
aspect  very  superior  to  any  thing  he  had  seen  at  Spiffard-town. 
A  narrow  bed,  much  longer  than  necessary r  with  quilted  calico 
coverlet  well  stuffed  with  cotton  wool ;  surrounded  by  calico 
curtains,  on  which  were  depicted  Lord  Anson,  his  ship,  his 
sailors,  and  the  groves  and  fountains  of  the  isles  of  those  de 
lightful  climes,  the  thought  of  which  made  Rousseau  exclaim, 
"  0  Tinian !  O  Juan  Fernandez  !" —  Below  this  pictured 
enclosure  was  a  resting  place  of  down  (or  goose  feathers) 
covered  by  sheets  and  pillow-case  white  as  the  driven  snow. 
A  table  (over  which  hung  a  mahogany  framed  looking-glass  ; 
and,  on  which  stood  a  neat  writing  desk  completely  furnished) 
was  placed  on  the  side  of  the  room  opposite  the  bed.  Two 
mahogany  chairs,  solid  and  heavy,  with  calico  covered  bottoms 
were  deemed  sufficient  for  the  boy — and  here  again  Lord 
Anson,  his  ship,  and  his  sailors,  appeared  in  undiminished 
beauty.  But  what  gave  most  delight  to  Zeb  was  a  handsome 
chest  of  drawers  (occupying  part  of  the  same  side  of  the  room 
with  tiie  door)  surmounted  by  a  book-case  with  glass  doors, 
which  showed  rows  of  neatly  arranged  and  well-bound  volumes. 

We  feel  assured,  that  our  readers  will  be  gratified,  after 
travelling  from  Vermont  with  the  Green-mountain-boy,  to 
know*. even  to  particulars,  that  he  was  set  down  in  good  quar 
ters  after  his  long  journey. 

Tired  as  Zeb  was,  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
examine  the  last-mentioned  treasure.  Delighted  he  took  down 
volume  after  volume,  almost  all  new  to  him.  A  collection  of 
modern  and  ancient  history.  Pope's  Translations  ;  Milton's 
poems ;  Dryden's  Virgil ;  Shakspeare's  plays  ;  and  a  rich 
store  of  voyages  and  travels  ;  a  bible  and  a  prayer  book,,  with 
his  name  printed  in  gold  letters  on  the  coverof  each,. completed 
the  arrangement  and  filled  the  shelves  of  this  well-chosen  piece 
of  furniture.  AH  thoughts  of  sleep  fled  before  intellectual 
excitement,  and  time  passed  insensibly,  when  a  knocking  at 
his  chamber  door  aroused  Zeb  from  his  enchanting  occupation, 
He  opened  the  door.  It  was  his  uncle  who  had  knocked  and 
now  presented  himself.  He  saw  with  astonishment  what  had 
been  the  employment  of  the  youth,  and  his  eyes  sparkled  with 
pleasure  at  the  discovery. 

"  1  observed  a  light  under  the  door,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
"  and  I  was  afraid  you  had  gone  to  bed  and  forgot  to  put  out 
the  candle." 


?2  Jin  old  Bachelor's  houser  a  Lawyers  office, 

"  I  beg  pardon,  sirf  but  I  could  not  help  looking  at  them." 

"  You  will  have  leisure  enough,  my  son,"  said  the  old  man. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  used  that  appellation.  "  You  will 
have  leisure  enough  to  examine  them  ;  they  are  intended  for 
your  use.  They  are  your  own.  You  are  now  fatigued,  and 
ought  to  rest,  mind  and  body.  To-morrow  look  at  and  open 
the  books,  and  every  day  after ;  and  remember  that  it  is  for  the 
truth  they  contain  that  you  are  to  study  them.  You  must  learn 
to  study  fiction  for  truth's  sake  ;  and  many  a  precious  truth 
you  will  find  in  the  guise  of  fiction.  The  fables  of  Milton  and 
Sliakspeare  are  mines  of  truth  and  knowledge.  Knowledge 
will  give  you  power  ;  if  in  the  acquisition  you  do  not  destroy 
your  health ;  without  health  there  is  no  power.  Therefore 
diligently  read  the  best  authors  ;  and  I  have  made  choice  of 
some  of  those  I  think  best ;  but  do  not  deprive  yourself  of  the 
rest  necessary  to  health,  otherwise  the  knowledge  you  attain 
by  study  will  be  as  useless  to  others  as  its  acquisition  has  been 
injurious  ^yourself.  The  fatigues  of  your  journey  and  the 
excitement  attendant  upon  a  change  of  situation  and  prospects 
render  sleep  doubly  necessary  to  you  now.  Put  out  the  light 
and  go  to  bed.  I  am  pleased  to  see  that  you  love  books. 
Good  night !  Put  out  the  light !" 

"  I  will  sir,"  said  Zeb. 

The  uncle  again  wished  him  4  good  night',  and  retired  to  rest, 
perfectly  satisfied  that  the  boy  was  such  as  he  wished,  notwith 
standing  first  appearances. 

Zeb  replaced  the  books,  threw  off  his  clothes,  put  out  the 
fight,  and  as  he  laid  his  head  on  the  pillow,  thought  he  should 
never  be  able  to  sleep :  but  that  sleep  that  comes  to  all  who  are 
healthy  and  guiltless,  quickly  came  to  the  tired  and  delighted 
boy,  nor  left  him  until  the  rising  sun  shone  into  his  window  and 
on  his  bed. 

He  awoke  only  to  renewed  delight.  He  had  sunk  to  forgct- 
fulness  amidst  the  images  of  his  kind  uncle  and  those  who  had 
been  his  companions  during  the  journey,  fading  and  changing 
kito  a  moving  chaos  of  the  forms  he  had  seen  the  last  day,  min 
gled  with  figures  left  behind  at  home;  he  opened  his  eyes  upon 
Lord  Anson  in  Juan  Fernandes — his  own  happy  situation 
flashed  upon  him  as  he  looked  at  his  book-case  ;  and  his  soul 
was  filled  with  happy  realities  and  overflowing  with  bright  anti 
cipations.  It  was  a  November  sun  that  shone  upon  our  hero, 
but  it  was  through  the  medium  of  a  pure  and  elastic  atmosphere; 
for  the  west  wind  had  sprung  up  during  the  night  and  brought 
with  it  just  enough  of  frost  to  harden  the  surface  of  the  earth, 


and  a  Play  in  Boston.  78 

and  make  clean  walks  for  the  early  pedestrian.  The  youth 
was  quickly  stationed  at  a  window  which  gave  him  a  view  of 
the  waters  of  the  wide  spreading  bay.  All  impatient  to  see 
more  of  the  wonders  around  and  before  him*  it  was  but  the 
business  of  a  few  minutes  to  find  his  way  out  of  the  house,  al 
though  somewhat  puzzled  when  encountering  bolts  and  bars  in 
his  way,  at  the  street  door,  things  unthought  of  at  SpifFard-town. 
The  key  was  in  the  lock,  and  Zeb  unlocked,  unbolted  and  un 
bared  with  the  dexterity  of  one  used  to  bending  both  body  and 
mind  to  the  overcoming  of  difficulties  ;  and  nothing  daunted  by 
the  strangeness  of  his  situation,  or  the  novelties  of  the  place, 
he  sallied  forth,  first  observing  the  appearance  of  his  uncle's 
place  of  residence,  and  of  its  bearings  with  surrounding  houses, 
as  he  would  the  landmarks  in  the  woods*  and  as  he  often  had  done 
when  there  was  no  other  means  to  find  his  way  home  again 
while  wandering  on  the  hills  of  Vermont. 

Soon  he  gained  the  top  of  Fort-hill.  He  had  never  before 
seen  the  salt-sea,  or  the  huge  machines  which  float  on  it.  He 
looked  enraptured  and  bewildered  over  the  beautiful  sheet  of 
water,  and  its  islands.  He  saw  ships  under  sail  intermingled 
with  smaller  vessels,  all  alive  and  glittering  in  the  morning  sun. 
He  looked  down  upon  the  roofs  and  chimnies  of  houses  below 
him,  and  the  topmasts  of  merchant  ships  moored  at  the  wharves* 
He  had  seen  such  things  only  in  book-engravings.  He  had 
been  instructed  by  books,  and  by  his  father,  in  the  events  of 
that  war  which  made  his  country  the  greatest  republic  in  the 
world,  and  he  thought  of  the  momentous  events  which  took 
place  in  and  near  the  town  of  which  he  had  now  become  a  res 
ident.  His  gazing  and  his  reveries  were  interrupted  by  a 
summons  to  breakfast.  His  uncle*  from  his  chamber  window, 
commanded  a  view  of  Fort-hill,  and  he  had  seen  the  boy  as  he 
stood  wrapt  in  wonder,  (gazing  with  delight  at  the  many  novel' 
objects  before  him,)  and  in  due  time  sent  for  him. 

It  is  not  our  intention,  or  our  interest,  to  weary  the  reader. 
We  hope  to  engage  his  attention  not  only  by  the  incidents  of 
our  history,  or  memoirs,  but  by  those  fascinating  fancy-stirring 
changes  of  scene  which  delight  the  imagination,  rouse  it  from 
any  tendency  to  slumber  when  one  set  of  objects  have  been 
too  long  before  it,  and  make  it  subservient  to  the  author's  pur 
poses.  We  will  pass  rapidly  over  the  detail  of  those  circum 
stances,  which,  more  than  books  or  teaching,  formed  the  second 
part  of  our  hero's  education,  and  of  course  had  their  share  in 
moulding  his  character,  for  we  are  as  impatient  as  our  readers 
can  be  to  come  to  those  great  events  which  render  him  an  ob- 


74  Jin  old  Bachelor's  houset  a  Lctwye^s  office, 

ject  worthy  of  their  curiosity,  and  our  labours.  But  let  us  never 
forget  that  the  foundation  of  education  and  character  was  laid 
at  SpifTard-town. 

Mr.  Abraham  Spiffard  soon  saw  in  what  points  the  artificial 
education  of  his  adopted  son  were  most  deficient ;  and  the 
youth  was  placed  in  the  best  school  Boston  afforded,  and  Bos 
ton  has  always  had  the  best  schools  in  the  United  States ;  the 
best  teachers,  the  best  systems;  and  is  honoured  accordingly. 

Zeb  improved  rapidly,  and  was  judged  by  his  uncle,  whose 
scholarship  was  not  profound,  to  be  fitted  for  commencing  the 
reading  of  law  in  some  counsellor's  office,  in  rather  less  than  a 
year  from  the  time  of  his  arrival  at  the  great  city  of  the  east, 
modestly,  (at  the  period  of  which  we  treat)  called  the 
"  town  of  Boston."  To  be  sure  he  had,  as  said  of  another 
great  character,  "  little  latin,  and  less  greek;"  but  as  Mr.  zYbra- 
ham  Spiffard  had  never  found  himself  much  the  worse,  as  far 
as  he  knew,  for  his  lack  of  the  same  commodities,  he  recom 
mended  to  his  nephew,  that  he  should  continue  his  study  of  the 
dead  languages  in  his  leisure  moments,  for  he  had  observed 
that  a  quotation  which  neither  jurors  nor  auditors  of  any  descrip 
tion  understood,  enhanced  the  character  of  the  orator,  and  was 
worth  ten  times  the  quantity  of  English.  And  you,  courteous 
reader,  have  thought  more  reverently  of  an  author  when  you 
have  met  a  passage  from  Homer,  Euripides,  or  Sophocles,  in 
the  genuine  Greek  characters — although  "  all  greek"  to  you. 
Thus  fitted  and  advised,  the  prudent  uncle  placed  the  youth 
with  a  young  lawyer  of  brilliant  talents,  but  whose  principal 
recommendation  to  the  old  gentleman,  was,-  that  he  had  long- 
known  him  as  the  son  of  an  old  friend.  Mr.  Spiffard  did  not 
exert  his  usual  shrewdness  in  selecting  a  teacher  for  Zeb,  as 
will  be  seen  in  the  sequel. 

Thomas  Treadwell,  Esq.,  in  whose  office  our  hero  now 
passed  a  great  portion  of  his  time,-  was  the  son  of  a  select  man< 
and  had  been  carefully  educated  by  his  indulgent  parent,  who 
justly  admired  his  quick  parts,  (as  all  parents  are  in  duty  bound 
to  do,)  and  devoted  him  to  the  profession  of  the  law,  as  the 
surest  road  to  the  Presidential  chair ;  which  he  doubted  not 
Tom  would  attain.  He  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  bdle-ht- 
irt  scholar ;  and  he  wrote  verses  with  some  skill,  great  spirit, 
and  sufficient  obscurity  ;  unfortunately  he  was  better  versed  in 
the  works  of  verse-makers,  than  of  jurists — unforiimalehj  at 
least  for  his  clients.  No  young  man  ever  started  in  the  race  of 
life,  under  better  auspices,  than  Tom  Treadwell,  but  he  never 
"  took  kindly"  to  labour,  and  he  had  Ranger's  authority  for  law 


and  a  Play  in  Boston.  75 

being  "  a  damned  dry  study,"  and  Ranger  was  authority  higher 
with  him  than  Blackstone  or  Coke.  He  found  the  drama  much 
more  to  his  taste,  and  the  Muses  and  actresses  much  more 
fascinating,  than  reports,  records,  or  deeds.  His  deeds,  and 
their  record,  will  be  found  to  agree  with  such  taste  and  such 
conduct.  In  fact,  just  about  the  time  our  hero  was  placed  un 
der  his  tuition,  to  be  instructed  in  the  depth  and  subtleties  of 
jurisprudence  ;  the  tutor  had,  in  defiance  of  all  prudence,  pri 
vately  married  a  very  beautiful  girl,  without  education,  property, 
or  decent  connections,  and  was  enamoured  for  the  moment 
with  his  new  situation,  so  much  as  to  neglect — the  Ihealre  ; 
his  office  had  been  deserted  before.  Of  all  this  Mr.  SpifTard 
knew  nothing,  he  only  knew  the  father  of  the  man  to  whom  he 
had  entrusted  his  son.  The  consequence  was,  as  may  be  sup 
posed,  that  Zeb  was  left  pretty  much  to  his  own  choice  in  the 
course  of  reading  he  pursued  at  the  office. 

Blackstone  is  always  at  hand  in  a  lawyer's  office  in  case  any 
one  comes  to  seek  the  man  of  science  for  advice  in  law  or 
equity  ;  and  except  on  such  occasions  the  knight  is  little  at 
tended  to,  even  in  appearance,  by  some  students  we  wot  of. 
The  love  and  practice  of  truth  was  never  abandoned  by  our  hero. 
But  insensibly  this  paltry  mode  of  deception  was  becoming  se 
ductive.  He  once  placed  a  book  of  reports  on  his  desk,  open, 
while  he  read  a  novel.  Happily  he  saw  his  error  before  it  was 
too  late — the  first  love  prevailed — he  blushed  at  the  meanness 
of  pretending  to  one  thing  and  practising  another,  and  ever  af 
ter,  truth  marked  his  character  almost  undeviatingly. 

SpirTard  read  history  with  delight.  The  translations  of  all 
the  great  poets,  ancient  and  modern,  became  familiar  to  him. 
Milton's  great  poems  and  Shakspeare's  plays  he  devoured. 
The  novels  of  Smollet  and  Fielding  added  to  his  pleasures,  and 
he  was  too  ignorant  of  vice  to  be  injured  by  them,  much.  His 
evenings  were  devoted  to  teachers  of  French,  Italian,  Spanish, 
and  German :  nor  did  he  neglect  the  studies  commenced  at 
school ;  he  likewise  took  lessons  in  dancing  and  fencing. 

He  had  been  permitted,  accompanied  by  his  uncle,  to  see 
some  plays,  immediately  upon  his  arrival  at  Boston.  The  im 
pression  made  upon  him  by  the  first  exhibition  of  the  kind  that 
he  witnessed,  though  by  no  means  singular  in  its  general  effects 
must  not  be  passed  over  in  silence.  All  appeared  as  the  work 
of  enchantment.  Seated  in  the  pit,  he  could  see  before  the 
play  commenced  the  gayly  decorated  fronts  of  the  boxes  glit 
tering  with  what  was  in  his  eyes  gold  and  jewels.  Beautiful 
women,  with  all  the  advantages  of  dress  entered  those  boxes. 


76  ./?n  old  Bachelor's  house^  a  Lawyer's  office, 

The  gay  company  by  degrees  took  their  seats — tier  above  tier 
they  sat,  all  happy,  doubtless,  for  all  smiled.  Even  the  third 
tier,  or  upper  boxes,  appeared  to  him  the  abode  of  happiness 
and  purity.  To  the  pure,  all  is  pure.  To  the  ingenuous  boy 
the  smiles  he  saw  were  innocuous. 

The  music  of  the  orchestra  struck  up,  and  although  others  did 
not  appear  to  hear  it,  our  hero's  delight  was  increased  almost 
to  intoxication. 

But  however  much  his  sense  of  hearing  was  captivated  by 
the  orchestra,  or  his  eyes  attracted  to  the  brilliant  company  in 
the  boxes,  above  all  he  looked  at  the  green  curtain  with  inter 
est,  for  the  hidden  and  unknown  is  far  more  attractive  than  the 
visible,  however  beautiful.  After  gazing  with  a  wandering  and 
restless  pleasure  on  the  many-coloured  objects  around  and 
above,  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  plain  dull  surface  of  the  cloth 
before  him,  which  told  nothing,  but  was  pregnant  with  myste 
rious  meaning  ;  for  he  knew  that  behind  that  lay  the  something 
that  was  to  crown  all — when  that  should  be  removed  his  felU 
city  would  be  complete.  How  he  knew  not — but  he  was  sure 
of  it.  A  bell  tinkled,  and  the  front  lamps  rose  as  if  by  magic. 
Another  bell  rung  louder.  The  curtain  vanished.  All  was  • 
dazzling  light  and  many-coloured  brilliancy  ;  the  silence  of 
breathless  expectation  succeeded.  Then  appeared  beautiful 
men  and  women,  with  fine  dresses,  and  sparkling  eyes,  and 
red  cheeks  !  surely  actors  and  actresses  must  be  not  only  the 
most  admired,  but  the  best,  most  lovely,  and  happiest  of  mor 
tals  !  In  the  course  of  Zeb's  novel  reading  he  had  not  yet 
read  Gil  Bias  :  and  Wilhelm  Meister  was  unknown  to  English 
readers. 

The  play  was  the  Jealous  Wife.  The  boy's  delight  was  ex 
treme,  except  during  that  scene  in  which  Charles  is  exhibited 
in  a  state  of  ebriety.  While  others  laughed,  he  was  absorbed 
in  a  melancholy  reverie.  He  felt  sick.  He  wished  himself 
at  home,  and  sighed  for  the  seclusion  of  his  chamber.  The 
remembrance  of  his  mother's  infirmity  took  such  possession  of 
him  from  that  moment,  that  only  the  novelty  of  the  enchanting 
spectacle,  and  his  interest  in  the  story,  especially  in  the  fate  of 
Charles,  would  have  made  the  general  impression  of  the  eve 
ning's  entertainment,  when  recollected,  pleasurable.  The  after 
piece  (for  he  staid  to  the  last,  and  wanted  more,)  the  after-piece 
was  Rosina,  which  gave  him  pure  delight. 

Such  was  his  first  impression  of  the  theatre.  Now,  that  he 
was  with  Treadwell,  he  had  a  full  gratification  of  the  desire 
created  by  the  few  plays  he  had  seen  before  he  became  a  stu- 


and  a  Play  in  Boston.  77 

tlent  of  law  ;  for  his  master  gained  him  free  admission  to  the 
pit  and  boxes,  and  thus  led  him  to  the  study  of  the  dramatic 
works  of  the  French  and  English  poets  :  of  these  he  found 
that  Mr.  Treadwell's  office  contained  an  abundance.  Among 
them  was  a  complete  old  edition  of  Bell's  British  Theatre  ;  all 
of  which  he  greedily  devoured  ;  a  dose  sufficient  to  poison  a 
regiment  of  Green-mountain  boys  !  If  such  reading  did  not 
destroy  all  his  moral  and  religious  propensities,  it  was  because 
his  natural  tendency  to  good — his  love  of  truth — his  ignorance 
of  practical  evil — his  habits — and  his  abhorrence  of  ebriety, 
.shielded  him  from  the  death-doing  influence. 

Before  proceeding  with  the  story,  (notwithstanding  the  read 
er's  impatience,)  we  will,  with  permission,  go  back  to  the  se 
cond  play  our  hero  saw  performed  before  his  introduction  to  the 
mysteries  behind  the  curtain  and  the  scenes  ;  this  was  Othello. 
He  had  read  Shakspeare  ;  yet  did  not  know  what  to  expect 
from  a  representation  of  characters  so  remote  from  any  thing 
he  had  seen  in  real  life.  What  ideas  could  a  Green-mountain 
boy  form  of  a  Moor — a  thick-lips — a  negro — commanding  an 
army  of  white  men— of  Italians  ?  It  is  the  player,  the  skilful 
artist,  that  gives  reality  to  the  pictures  of  the  dramatic  poet. 
The  young  or  uninstructed  mind  forms  confused  images  while 
reading,  in  proportion  to  its  ignorance. 

On  Zeb's  second  visit  to  a  play-house,  the  delight  experi 
enced  from  the  proscenium  and  preliminaries,  was  not  so 
vivid  as  at  the  first ;  but  his  impatience  for  the  raising  of  the 
green  curtain  was  full  as  intense.  The  music  gave  him  little 
pleasure,  and  the  beauties  in  the  boxes  had  lost  half  their 
charms. 

The  effect  of  this  representation  of  one  of  Shakspeare's  most 
glorious  productions  upon  our  hero  was  such,  that  his  reasoning 
powers  seemingly  gained  an  advance  of  years.  His  intellect 
grew  almost  perceptibly  during  the  sitting  ;  or  while,  as  the 
French  say,  he  assisted  at  the  representation.  His  whole  soul 
was  alive  to  the  story :  the  apothegms  sunk  upon  his  young 
and  yielding  mind  with  a  thrilling  sensation  of  approbation, 
that  made  them  part  of  his  moral  being. 

Again  he  was  shocked  by  the  representation  of  ebriety ;  and 
his  detestation  ot"  lago  was  more  increased  by  his  playing  the 
part  of  a  tempter,  and  subverting  the  reason  of  Cassioby  wine, 
than  even  by  his  atrocious  villany  in  deceiving  the  noble  Moor, 
and  destroying  the  wretched  Desdemona.  Cassio,  deprived  of 
reason,  was,  to  Spiffard,  a  spjectacle  of  horror.  While  others 
laughed,  he  experienced  a  sickness  of  the  heart — a  sinking  of 

7 


78  &i  old  Bachelors  house,  a  Lawyers  office, 

every  physical  power — a  confusion  of  his  mental  faculties — 
a  loathing  of  existence  ;  feelings  that  can  only  be  conceived  by 
those  who  have  had  their  hopes  blasted  by  the  effects  of  this 
accursed  vice.  He  gazed  on  the  representative  of  Cassio,  but 
he  saw  his  own  desolated  home.  When  the  virtuous  and  be 
trayed  lieutenant  recovers  his  reason,  and  with  disgust,  repro 
bates  his  folly  in  putting  "  an  enemy  into  his  mouth  to  steal 
away  his  brains,"  the  tears  rolled  down  the  cheeks  of  the  boy, 
and  he  sobbed  aloud,  until  he  found  that  he  had  become  an 
object  of  derision  to  those  around  him. 

Shakspeare  has  truly  represented  intemperance  as  a  vice 
leading  to  certain  degradation,  crime,  and  self-reproach.  He 
has,  in  other  parts  of  his  works,  shown  it  as  the  habitual  prac 
tice  of  the  criminal,  (as  in  Hamlet's  uncle,)  the  murderer, 
the  usurper,  and  fratricide.  He  has  portrayed  it  as  the  vice 
of  the  weak-minded,  and  of  the  brutal  and  the  vulgar  ruffian ; 
as  in  Sir  Andrew  Aguccheek  and  Sir  Toby,  in  the  Twelth 
Night.  But,  generally,  the  stage  has  held  up  the  drunkard 
merely  as  an  object  of  amusement,  to  be  laughed  at,  not  pitied 
or  detested  ;  and  has  thus  been  deficient  or  negligent,  if  not, 
criminal,  when  it  ought  to  have  exposed  its  deformity,  ami 
pointed  out  its  inevitable  consequences,  misery,  madness, 
death,  and  contempt. 

His  master's  attachment  to  the  theatre  at  length  introduced 
our  hero  behind  the  scenes.  What  he  there  saw  at  first  dis 
gusted  him.  It  appeared  as  if  Ithuriel's  spear  had,  by  a  touch, 
caused  the  angel  form  to  vanish,  and  the  fiend  to  appear  ;  had 
changed  beauty  to  deformity.  That  which  had  pleased  the  eye 
as  the  glow  of  health,  was,  in  reality,  a  coarse  white  and  red 
daubing,  associated  in  his  mind,  from  infancy,  with  disease  or 
moral  depravity.  The  modest  mien  assumed  before  the  audi 
ence,  was  sometimes  suddenly  dismissed,  after  passing  the  side 
scene,  and  replaced  by  coarse  mirth,  or  coarser  rage.  The 
devout  or  patient  hero  would  instantly  be  converted  into  a  fury, 
venting  curses  upon  the  prompter  or  call-boy.  The  brilliant 
dress,  decorated  with  gold  and  jewels,  was  transformed  to  a 
flimsy  rag,  covered  with  tinsel,  glass,  and  foil ;  the  warrior's 
mail,  into  paste-board  and  spangles ;  all  the  order,  harmony, 
and  splendour  of  the  scenes,  into  confusion,  wrangling,  the 
darkness  of  smoking  lamps,  and  the  jostling  of  dirty  scene- 
shifters  and  vulgar  supernumeraries.  Yet  all  this  is  only  an 
image  of  the  masking  and  unmasking  in  every  day  scenes  of  life,. 
To  be  sure,  we  do  not  see  the  mask  lifted  often ;  when  we  do, 
we  are  shocked  as  the  boy  was.  Though  shocked,  yet  the  ugly 


and  a  Play  in  Boston.  79 

chaos  was  recommended,  in  some  measure,  by  novelty  ;  and, 
by  degrees,  (as  to  other  ugly  things,)  he  became  reconciled  or 
indifferent.  In  the  green-room  he  found  amusement;  and 
sometimes,  very  rarely,  was  surprised  by  finding  wit. 

TreadwelPs  propensities  induced  a  constant  attendance, 
(after  the  honeymoon,)  upon  those  scenes  either  before  or 
behind  the  curtain,  which  his  love  of  idleness  had  made 
habitual ;  and  as  he  wrote  prologues,  epilogues,  and  puffs,  for 
the  managers,  and  performers,  he  was  a  free  and  welcome 
visiter.  Spiffard,  of  course,  made  acquaintances  among  the 
players.  He  was  found  to  be  amusing  ;  his  voice  was  strong 
and  flexible,  and  it  was  discovered  that  his  ear  was  quick  for 
music  and  mimicry.  Thus  he  became  transformed,  by  degrees, 
from  the  plain  green-mountain  rustic,  to  a  knowing  frequenter 
of  the  play-house  ;  but  still  he  shrunk  from  the  contagion  of 
the  vice  which  too  frequently  congregates  there.  Two  char* 
acteristics  distinguished  hirn  from  the  mass  of  his  companions,, 
even  more  than  talents  ;  he  never  drank  any  thing  but  water, 
nor  spoke  any  thing  but  truth.  He  had  another  singularity,  he 
was  as  credulous  as  he  was  sincere.  Time  diminished  this 
characteristic,  but  could  not  eradicate  it. 

In  the  mean  time,  although  Squire  Spiffard,  of  Spiffurd-town, 
frequently  wrote  to  his  son,  and  mentioned  his  mother,  as  usual, 
as,  "your  mother  sends  her  love,  &c. ;"  yet  the  son  was  ig 
norant  of  what  he  most  wished  to  know.  He  could  not  but 
iiope  that  his  father's  patient  and  prudent  conduct  would  pro- 
duce  the  reformation  he  most  desired.  The  father  avoided 
the  subject — how  could  he  do  otherwise  1  This  one  idea  haunted 
the  son,  and  he  knew  not  how  to  gain  the  information  he  wish 
ed.  He  could  only  inquire  after  his  mother's  health  ;  and  the 
answer  could  only  be  "well,"  or  "sick,"  "better,"  or  "worse." 
At  length,  he  accidentally  met  in  the  street  one  of  his  father's" 
neighbours,  who  had  come  for  the  first  time  to  Boston,  and  was 
gazing  upon  the  wonders  of  the  town  open-mouthed. 

Spiffard  placed  himself  directly  in  his  path,  as  he  slowly 
moved,  with  head  turned  aside,  and  eyes  fixed  on  the  treasures 
of  the  shop-windows.  The  lord  of  an  hundred  acres,  after 
almost  stumbling  over  the  young  man,  stared  for  a  moment  in 
his  face,  and  then  exclaimed,  "  Why,  I'll  be  dang'd,  if  here 
is'n't  little  Zeb  !"  After  scrutinizing  him  from  head  to  foot, 
the  yeoman  exclaimed,  "  why,  Zeb  !  why  you're  not  the  same ; 
and  yet  you  are  the  same,  too.  Taller  and  handsomer,  and  yet 
tfee  same  funny  face.  Well,  Zeb,  I  seed  your  daddy  and  mam- 


80  £n  old  Bachelor's  Aow.se,  a  Lawyer's  office, 

my,  and  all  the  boys  and  gals  !    And  so  here  you  be  a  fine 
town  gentleman !" 

After  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand,  our  hero  was  glad  to  carry 
his  friend  to  the  solitude  of  his  master's  office  ;  feeling  a  little 
prudent  shyness,  or  false  shame,  in  consequence  of  the  loud 
and  hearty  greetings  of  his  townsman. 

Farmer  Freeman,  after  examining  the  premises,  expressed 
his  admiration  of  Treadwell's  book-cases.  "  Why,  Zeb,  what 
a  power  of  books  you've  got !  Arnt  you  afeerd,  as  the  bible 
says,  '  too  much  laming  will  make  you  mad  ?' ': 

44  No  fear  of  that,  Mr.  Freeman.  And  so — all  the  folks — - 
come  sit  down;  and  so  all  is  well  at  Spiffard-town?" 

"Why,  pretty  middling  ;  all  stirrin." 

44  The  town  grows!" 

"  0  aye,  and  the  folks  grow ;  but  I  don't  know  that  they 
grow  much  better.  Turner,  the  store-keeper,  you  know,  jist 
there  t'other  side  the  church  ;  why  he  has  run  off  to  Canada, 
they  say,  and  took  as  many  people  in  as  he  could  :  but  there 
are  two  stores  set  up  since.  And  would  you  believe  it  1  Bill 
Tomkin's,  your  school-fellow,  is  married  to  Sally  Bell ;  he's 
not  nineteen  yet,  and  she's  sixteen  next  February  ;  and  his  fa 
ther  is  building  a  right  smart  house  for  him,  not  far  from  — ." 

44  That's  well !  And  how  does  my  father  look?  Is  he  well  ?'* 
Zeb  did  not  dare  to  ask  first  after  his  mother's  looks,  though 
;she  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts." 

"  W7hy  the  squire  looks  a  little  thinriish,  I  must  say,"  was 
Freeman's  reply.  "  He  seems  a  little  under  the  weather,  some 
how  ;  and  yet  he's  not  sick.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  been  jaded 
like." 

Zeb  sighed.     "  And  my  mother?"  hesitatingly  he  asked. 

44  Why  she's  more  and  more  varysome  : — one  day  pale,  and 
another  day  red.  I  suppose  its  the  natur  of  your  old  country 
complexions.  And  you  know  your  mammy  is  changeful  in 
her  ways  of  acting  and  speaking  too :  sometimes  mighty  fun 
ny,  and  sometimes  a  little  snappish,  and  grumlike.  The  neigh- 
tours  do  say — " 

Zeb  felt  as  if  sinking  through  the  floor.  The  farmer  con 
tinued,  "  they  think  the  squire's  lady  has  Bever  been  herself 
since  that  old  country  chap  with  his  dogs,  and  his  £ne  lady 
wife  lived  among  us.5J 

Zeb  lifted  his  head — breathed  more  freely — and  Freeman- 
went  on  with  his  gossip.  "  She  looks  a  little  queerlike,  some- 
limes,  and  slamakin,  and  then  her  face  grows  fat,  and  her  body 
grows  thin,  and  then — " 


How  to  study  Law. — A  change  of  destination.          81 

M  And  the  children  ?"  asked  the  miserable  son,  hastily  inter 
rupting  thai  of  which  he  had  heard  but  too  much.  "  The 
children — they  I  hope  are  well  ?" 

"  Yes, — they  are  pretty  so  so — not  hardy,  though  : — they 
don't  look  like  my  boys  and  gals  ;  and  the  squire  seems  more 
and  more  fond  of  them  ;  but  somehow  or  another  your  mammy 
seems — "  The  yeoman  paused,  as  if  in  want  of  a  simile — and 
.Zeb  quickly  changed  the  conversation,  by  abruptly  inquiring 
what  he  had  seen  in  Boston,  giving  him  an  invitation  to  his 
uncle's  house,  and  making  offers  of  service,  with  perfect  sin 
cerity  and  goodwill. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

How  to  study  Law. — Jl  change  of  destination. 

"It  was  about  to  speak  when  the  cock  crew, 
And  then  it  started  like  a  guilty  thing." — Shakspeare. 

"  To  his  trust  grew  stranger,  being  transported 
And  wrapt  in  secret  studies. 

"  Der  Mann  muss  hinaus 

In's  feindliche  Leben, 

Muss  werken  und  streben — " — Schiller. 

"  By  mine  honour  I  will ;  and  when  I  break  that  oath,  let  me  turn  mon 
ster." — Shakspeare. 

EXCERPTS,  as  headings  to  chapters,  have  been  sneered  at. 
I  am  inclined  to  multiply  them.  If  my  reader  passes  them 
over,  he  will  miss  that  which  is  worth  more  than  the  whole 
chapter  following. 

Mr.  Thomas  Treadwell  abandoned  his  office  so  entirely, 
that  after  a  time,  no  one  thought  of  inquiring  for  him  at  that 
place  ;  or  at  any  other,  on  business  connected  with  his  profes 
sion  :  and  Zeb  mechanically  opened  the  windows  every  morn 
ing,  and  habitually  sat  down  to  his  books,  without  thought  of 
courts,  clients,  or  law.  He  was  conscious  that  he  was  not  in 
the  path  intended  for  him  by  his  uncle,  and  consequently  the 
course  he  was  pursuing  was  wrong,  but  he  was  fascinated  by 
fhe  opportunity  that  was  afforded  him  of  gratifying  his  passion 


82          How  to  study  Law. — Jl  change  of  destination. 

for  reading ;  and  as  long  as  no  one  interrupted  it,  he  could  not 
or  would  not,  see  the  necessity  for  a  change.  His  imcle  had 
advised  a  course  of  history,  and  belles  lettres  reading,  meaning, 
**  when  not  employed  in  the  study  of  legal  science  :" — Zeb  fol 
lowed  his  uncle's  advice  literally  and  industriously — neglecting 
the  spirit  and  intent — and  as  no  law  reading  was  enjoined  upon 
him  by  his  master,  he  quieted  his  conscience  by  acting  up  to 
the  letter  of  the  instructions.  He  became  a  thorough  historian 
and  belles  lettres  scholar,  as  far  as  English  and  French  authors 
could  make  him  one.  He  partook  of  the  Spanish,  Italian, 
and  German  ;  and  delighted  to  task  himself  in  the  Latin  clas 
sics — his  tasks  becoming  another  source  of  mental  improve 
ment,  another  source  of  pleasure — for  it  is  a  law  of  the  bene 
volent  Creator,  that  perseverance  in  well-doing,  although  at  first 
a  task,  shall  become  more  and  more  a  pleasure  ;  knowledge 
increases  the  facilities  of  attaining  knowledge,  and  "  the  appe 
tite  grows  by  that  it  feeds  on." 

Of  all  the  authors  read  by  Spiffard,  no  one  was  studied  with 
so  much  pleasure  as  Shakspeare.  The  boy  hat!  early  read  him, 
(for  Shakspeare  was  found  at  Spiffard  tow*n)  but  he  now  studied 
him  and  his  commentators.  His  thoughts  and  language  by 
degrees  became  in  a  measure  imbued  with  the  images  and 
phraseology  of  the  poet.  It  was  only  when  in  after  time  he 
was  laughed  at  by  his  companions,  that  he  was  induced  tc* 
relinquish  a  mode  of  expressing  himself  which  appeared  to 
some  affected. 

Mankind  are  not  generally  aware  of  the  influence  which  one 
book,  or  one  man,  may  have,  and  has  had,  on  a  nation  or  a 
world.  Even  those  who  cannot  (or  those  who  do  not)  read, 
hear  the  precepts  of  the  author,  sometimes  quoted  as  such, 
oftentimes  mingled  unconsciously  in  ordinary  conversation. 
The  maxims  of  the  Koran,  the  Vedah  and  the  Shastah  are 
mingled  in  the  intercourse  of  every-day  life,  among  their  fol 
lowers,  as  well  as  quoted  from  the  desk  or  the  pulpit ;  and  the 
same  or  greater  effect  is  produced  by  the  Hebrew  and  Greek 
scriptures.  So  the  popular  poet  or  author  sheds  abroad  a  light 
upon  society  which  in'  its  effects  is  incalculable. 

If  the  poet's  precepts  are  poured  forth  year  after  year  for 
ages  from  the  stage,  as  are  those  of  the  "  Swan  of  Avon," 
they  make  a  part  of  the  education  of  nations  ;  they  are  mingled 
with  the  thoughts  and  words  of  all — influencing  their  passions 
and  actions — they  become  instruments  of  illimitable  power  on 
the  civilization  and  consequent  well-being  of  man. 

A  shrewd  and  well  educated  person  once  said,  "I  went  last 


How  to  Study  Law — *1  Change  of  destination.          63 

evening  to  see  Othello,  and  I  have  been  thinking  ever  since  or 
the  many  beautiful  passages  which  have  been  familiar  to  me 
from  childhood,  and  which  are  to  be  found  in  that  play." 

Our  hero  became  acquainted  with  all  the  beauties  and  defects 
of  the  mighty  master.  He  read  him,  and  heard  him  expounded. 
He  studied  him,  and  saw  him  illustrated.  But  of  law — except 
the  poetic  law  of  the  stagyrite — he  was  as  ignorant  as  many 
other  young  gentlemen  who  read,  or  smoke,  in  lawyers'  offices. 

What  was  Uncle  Abraham  about  all  this  time  ?  Reading 
his  favourite  books,  and  indulging  as  much  research  into  an 
cient  literature,  as  a  defective  early  education  permitted.  Still 
he  entered  into  many  speculative  studies,  and  pursued  them  far 
beyond  the  reading  of  mere  men  of  this  world  ;  and  when  he 
questioned  his  nephew  on  topics,  little  thought  of  by  most  young 
men,  he  was  pleased  to  find  him  intelligent,  inquiring,  and  in 
possession  of  knowledge  uncommon  for  his  age.  At  length, 
old  Mr.  Spiffard,  the  uncle,  thought  it  time  that  Zeb  should  be 
prepared  for  his  examination.  He  had  passed  nearly  the  num 
ber  of  years  usual,  and  legally  necessary,  for  reading  law  in  the 
capital  of  Massachusetts.  "  I'll  go  to  Mr.  Treadwell's  office, 
and  talk  the  matter  over  with  him,  and  with  my  nephew,"  said 
uncle  Abraham.  Accordingly,  one  day,  as  story-tellers  have 
it,  he  appeared  suddenly  at  the  office,  while  Zeb  was  standing 
in  the  most  approved  attitude  for  delivering  Marc  Anthony's 
oration  over  the  body  of  Julius  Csesar.  The  door  had  been 
left  partly  open,  and  his  uncle  entered,  unperceived  by  the 
young  orator,  who  was  practising  postures  before  a  mirror ; 
which,  .though  only  intended  to  aid  Mr.  Treadwell  in  adjusting 
a  cravat,  before  making  his  appearance  in  court,  or  in  the 
green-room,  disclosed  the  graces  of  our  hero's  person  and 
action,  (imperfectly  it  is  true,)  and  at  the  same  time  served  to 
let  him  see  that  he  had  an  admirer  behind  him.  He  was  in 
circumstances  similar  to  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father,  about  to 
speak  "  when  the  cock  crew,"  but  alas  !  he  could  not  vanish. 
The  uncle  had  been  standing  for  a  moment,  before  the  young 
lawyer  was  aware  that  any  other  than  his  own  eyes  witnessed 
his  attitudcnizmg.  When  he  saw  the  reflection  of  Uncle  Abra 
ham,  he  dropt  his  outstretched  arm,  and  looked  like  any  thing 
rather  thaa  a  hero. 

"  That's  right,"  said  the  old  gentleman ;  "  I  see  that  you 
are  preparing  yourself  for  public  speaking.  It  is  the  sure  road 
t,o  wealth  and  honour  in  a  republic." 

The  uncle  certainly  did  not  mean  the  same  kind  of  public 


84  How  to  study  Laic — Jl  change  of  destination. 

speaking  that  occupied  the  mind  of  the  nephew;  but  Zeb  was 
relieved  from  his  embarrassment  by  the  train  of  thought  which 
his  preparation  for  enacting  Marc  Anthony  had  suggested  ;  and 
his  uncle  proceeded  to  the  business  which  had  brought  him  to 
the  office. 

The  result  of  Mr.  Abraham  SpifTurd's  inquiries  was  not  so 
favourable  to  the  belief  of  his  nephew's  progress  in  the  acqui 
sition  of  that  knowledge,  necessary  for  the  orator  of  the  Bar, 
the  town  house,  the  general  assembly,  or  hall  of  congress.  His 
questions  were  answered  with  perfect  frankness  by  Zeb,  who 
through  life  never  lost  his  relish  for  truth  or  pure  water.  The 
uncle  was  astonished  that  he  had  so  long  omitted  those  in 
quiries  which  now  elicited  the  astounding  fact  that  Treadwell 
had  long  neglected  both  his  business  and  his  pupil ;  who  knew 
very  little  more  of  law,  (particularly  its  practice,)  than  when  he 
entered  the  office.  The  answer  to  one  inquiry  led  to  another, 
and  the  good  old  gentleman  concluded  his  interrogatories  by 
asking  mildly,  "  Why,  my  son,  did  you  not  tell  me  all  this  ?" 

Zeb  stood  silent  for  some  moments,  before  answering.  Not 
that  he  wished  to  evade  the  question,  but  he  wanted  time  to  ar 
range  his  thoughts,  like  one  of  our  Indians  at  a  council-meeting ; 
one  of  those  men  whom  we  call  our  red  brethren,  and  shoot 
when  they  do  not  get  out  of  our  way,  exactly  at  the  time  we 
wish  to  improve  their  lands  for  our  profit,  and  plough  up  the 
bones  of  their  forefathers,  with  as  little  ceremony  as  we  do 
those  of  our  own.  Zeb  was  conscious  that  he  had  not  been 
doing  as  his  uncle  intended ;  and  that  although  he  had  not 
planned  to  deceive  the  worthy  man,  yet  he  had  suffered  him  to 
deceive  himself.  After  collecting  his  thoughts,  Indian  fashion, 
he  replied  with  perfect  ingenuousness : 

"  I  take  shame  to  myself,  sir ;  I  ought  to  have  told  you  all 
this,  and  not  waited  till  you  questioned  me.  I  have  reasoned 
with  myself  repeatedly  upon  the  subject,  and  rny  reason  al 
ways  told  me  that  I  was  not  employing  my  time  as  you  intend 
ed  that  it  should  be  employed.  But  this  self-examination  did 
not  take  place  until  in  consequence  of  my  teacher's  neglect  and 
the  love  I  had  imbibed  for  the  study  of  general  literature,  a  se 
cret  dislike — and  afterwards  to  myself,  an  avowed  determina 
tion  had  been  formed  not  to  devote  myself  to  the  profession  of 
the  law.  To  form  such  a  resolution  without  consulting  you, 
was  wrong.  Nay,  I  knew  it  to  be  wrong,  at  the  time.  But  as 
every  other  study  became  more  delightful  to  me,  so,  that  for 
which  I  was  placed  here,  became  more  and  more  disgusting. 
You  appeared  to  be  proud  of  my  acquirements  in  languages 


How  to  study  Law — A  change  of  destination.  85 

and  literature,  and  I  cheated  myself  into  the  belief,  that,  if  I 
became  a  good  scholar — a  well  informed  man — and  proved 
myself  by  my  conduct  a  moral  man,  1  might  be  permitted  to 
choose  some  employment  more  congenial  with  my  taste  and 
feelings,  than  the  dry  and  formal,  or  the  uncertain,  intricate, 
and  oft-times  disingenuous  proceedings,  connected  with  the 
transactions  in  our  courts  of  justice.  And  I — I  hoped — Yes, 
I  will  tell  you  all — that  as  you  had  avowed  your  determination 
to  consider  me  in  all  things  as  your  son,  that  you  would  permit 
me  to  travel,  first  in  our  country,  and  then  in  foreign  lands, 
and  thus  to  cultivate  a  knowledge  of  men,  as  well  as  of  books, 
of  manners,  as  well  as  science  and  literature — a  knowledge 
which  would  enable  me  on  my  return  to  my  dear  native  coun 
try,  justly  appreciating  her  institutions,  to  be  an  honour  to  you, 
a  comfort  and  support  to  my  parents,  and  to  enter  the  lists  as 
a  candidate  for  office,  with  not  only  the  desire,  but  the  power 
to  serve  my  countrymen — a  power  which  should  produce  such 
effects  as  seemed  to  be  the  ultimate  object  you  had  in  view  for 
me — such  effects  as  would  meet  your  approbation,  and  justify 
the  partiality  you  had  evinced  towards  me." 

The  old  gentleman  was  evidently  agitated  while  his  nephew 
poured  forth  this  address.  He  took  a  chair,  and  sat  down  du 
ring  its  delivery  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  and  his  hat 
pulled  over  his  brow  :  at  its  close  he  looked  up,  with  some  se 
verity  of  aspect,  and  replied  in  a  tone  of  unusual  asperity, 
"  So  !  knowing  that  by  a  life  of  industry  I  had  accumulated  a 
decent  competency,  you  supposed  that  I  would  indulge  you  in 
a  life  of  idleness  ?" 

"  0  no,  sir—" 

The  uncle  would  not  be  interrupted.  "  Your  love  of  inge 
nuousness  induced  you  to  deceive  me  !  You  knew  better,  like 
wise,  what  my  wishes  were  than  I  did  myself!  You  thought  it 
would  be  more  to  your  advantage  to  visit  France,  Italy,  and 
Germany,  and  be  presented  at  the  courts  of  foreign  princes 
than  to  attend  the  courts  of  law  in  Massachusetts,  and  become 
familiar  with  the  institutions  of  the  country  you  are  to  reside  in  : 
now,  I  have  served  my  country,  and  was  supposed  to  be  quali 
fied  to  promote  the  happiness  of  those  connected  with  me,  or 
whose  welfare  had  been  entrusted  to  me  ;  and  that  without  fo 
reign  travelling  or  any  other  travelling.  I  have  been  content 
with  this  town — and  this  town  has  been  content  with  me.  I 
have  lamented  the  deficiencies  of  my  education,  and  hoped  that 
by  making  you  a  scholar  and  a  scientific  lawyer,  you  would 
have  been  able  to  do  more  and  better  than  I  have  done.  I  chose 

7* 


86  How  to  study  Law — Jl  change  of  destination* 

a  path  for  you,  and  supposed  that  you  were  following  its  course : 
but  you  have  chosen  another  for  yourself.  Now,  suppose  I 
was  to  say,  '  I  have  been  deceived, — go !  pursue  your  own 
course  :  I  have  done  with  you?  " 

*'  I  cannot  suppose  it,  sir." 

44  Why  not  V9 

"  Tt  is  not  like  you.     Besides,  I  did  not  plan  to  deceive  you." 

"  You  saw  me  cherishing  an  error,  and  did  not  undeceive 
me." 

"  I  was  wrong,  sir — but  I  deceived  myself.  I  believed  that 
I  was  qualifying  myself  to  become  that  which  you  most  wished 
me  to  become.  I  would  willingly  believe  it  still.  I  have 
heard  you  complain  of  the  drudgery  you  have  gone  through  to 
acquire  wealth,  and  lament*that  you  had  not  devoted  more  time 
to  the  more  ennobling  studies.  I  never  doubted  that  you 
wished  me  to  profit  by  the  means  in  your  possession,  to  enter 
into  a  wider  field  of  action  and  competition  than  you  had  neces 
sarily  been  confined  to — that  you  wished  me  to  rise  above  the 
professional  technicalities  and  every-day  labour  of  the  court 
and  the  office.  I  will  believe  still  that  my  kind  uncle — my  more 
than  father,  will  aid  me  in  the  path  I  shall  choose,  provided  he 
shall  be  convinced  that  it  is  the  path  of  honour." 

"  The  path  of  the  lawyer  is  a  path  of  honour.  He  may 
build  for  himself  a  reputation  which  shall  stand  the  assaults  of 
<  nvy  or  folly  ;  but  it  must  have  its  foundation  in  what  you  call 
the  technicalities  of  the  office,  and  the  habit  of  every-day  la 
bour.  That  necessary  habit  you  have  not  acquired.  The  foun 
dation  of  honour  is  truth.  If  I  should  aid  you  to  pursue  the  path 
you  have  preferred,  and  continue  still  to  be  a  father  to  you,  it 
will  be  after  the  conviction  that  you  will  not  in  future  deceive 
another,  or  suffer  another  to  deceive  himself;  and  then  make 
.^elf-deception  a  plea,  or  an  excuse  for  your  conduct.  I  have 
confided  in  you — and  I  may  say — "  here  the  old  man's  voice 
faltered — "  I  have  loved  you,  because  I  thought  I  discovered 
in  you  a  rooted  love  of  truth — I  thought  it  was  habitual  in  act 
as  in  word — I  thought — " 

The  young  man  interrupted  him,  "  Next  to  my  love  of  the 
Author  of  all  Good,  is  my  love  of  truth.  My  fervent  desire  is 
to  be  habitually  frank  and  sincere  in  all  my  intercourse  with  my 
fellow-creatures.  I  have  now  received  a  lesson  never  to  be 
forgotten." 

Mr.  SphTard  was  silent  for  a  moment :  his  tone  was  changed, 
when  he  said  :  "  I  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  your  desire.  The 
belief  that  such  was  ever  your  disposition,  has  made  me  a  con- 


We  return  home — Medicine  and  Theology  in  Vermont.    87 

ficling  father  to  you.  But  the  love  of  God,  and  of  truth,  must 
be  shown  by  obedience  to  their  laws  in  deed  and  word." 

4*  Here,  sir,  before  heaven — " 

"  No  protestations,  young  man.  Notwithstanding  what  has 
passed,  and  my  bitter  disappointment,  I  will  confide  in  you — I 
must  confide  in  you.  If  I  thought  that  there  had  been  a  deli 
berate  plan  to  deceive,  confidence  would  have  flawn  forever. 
We  cannot  believe  at  will.  I  intend  that  you  shall  be  my  heir : 
and  as  you  have  given  me  to  know  that  you  will  not  pursue  the 
law  as  a  profession,  I  will,  inasmuch  as  you  have  arrived  at  an 
age  beyond  childhood,  consult  your  wishes,  and  we  will  be  de 
termined  as  to  the  future  by  our  cool  consideration  of  the 
matter.-' 

Zeb  attempted  to  speak,  but  his  voice  failed  him.  Tears 
ran  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  sobbed  aloud.  Here  ended  this 
momentous  conference.  Uncle  Spiffard  soon  after  had  an 
explanation  with  Mr.  Thomas  Treadwcll,  and  Zeb  was  with 
drawn  from  the  study  of  the  law. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Wt  return  home. — J\Iedicine  and  Theology  in  Vermont. 

"Let  us  sit  and  mock  the  good  housewife.  Fortune,  from  her  wheel,  that 
her  gifts  may  henceforth  be  bestowed  equally.'5 

"Fortune  reigns  in  gifts  of  the  world,  not  in  the  lineaments  of  nature." 

"  I  never  did  repent  of  doing  good,  nor  shall  not  now." 

Skakspcare. 


"One  really  does  meet  with  characters  that  fiction  would  seem  too 
bold  in  portraying.  This  original  had  an  aversion  to  liquor,  which 
amounted  to  abhorrence;  being  embittered  by  his  regret  at  the  mischiefs 
resulting  from  it  to  his  friends." — Mr».  Grant. 

OUR  hero  had  been  between  two  and  three  years  from  under 
the  paternal  roof,  and,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  had  never  vi 
sited  the  place  of  his  nativity.  One  image,  connected  with 
home,  haunted  him.  He  saw  it  in  the  streets,  in  various 
shapes,  and  oft  times  followed  its  reeling  and  devious  course, 
as  the  bewildered  traveller  follows  the  meteor  which  leads  into 
Ifce  marsh  or  pool,  its  poisonous  origin.  This  image  banished 


§8    We  return  home — Medicine  and  Theology  in  Vermont. 

&om  his  mind  all  pleasing  associations  belonging  to  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood.  It  was  an  image  of  mourning  and  desolation. 
It  amounted  almost  to  a  monomania,  that  literally  grew  with  his 
growth,  for  he  comprehended  more  and  more  the  degradation 
of  his  mother,  and  the  misery  of  his  father,  as  his  mind  ex- 
pamled.  He  shrunk  from  a  nearer  contemplation  of  the  scenes 
feis  memory  presented,  or  his  imagination  suggested.  He 
dreaded  the  consequences  of  those  too  well  remembered  exhi 
bitions  in  all  their  hideousness.  A  visit  to  his  father's  house 
when  thought  of,  awakened  an  expectation  of  witnessing  reali 
ties,  which  fancy  conjured  up  to  view,  and  reason  forced  him  to 
anticipate.  He  even  avoided  speaking  of  home. 

Zebediah  Spiffard  was  now  nearly  nineteen  years  of  age, 
and  as  tall  as  nature  or  circumstances  permitted  him  ever  to 
be.  He  had  attained  his  growth  sometime  before,  but  had 
been  shook  somewhat  nearer  the  common  length  of  man  by  the 
fever  and  ague.  His  uncle  in  due  time  consented  to  his  plan 
of  travelling,  and,  the  notion  once  adopted,  the  old  man  became 
anxious  that  his  adopted  son  should  be  qualified  to  talk  as  loud 
©f  London  and  Paris,  Vesuvius  and  Pompeii,  Apollo  and  Ve 
nus,  RafFaello  and  Corregio,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  as  the  sons 
®f  his  neighbours ;  but  recommended,  however,  a  short  delay, 
and  a  visit  to  his  parents.  Zeb  felt  and  acknowledged  the 
propriety  of  his  uncle's  recommendation,  but  assented  with 
sad  forebodings,  and  reluctantly  prepared  for  a  journey  to  Ver 
mont,  although  his  heart  felt  the  yearnings  of  affection  towards 
Ms  unfortunate  father. 

Three  winters  and  two  summers  had  passed  since  leaving 
liome,  and  now,  in  the  month  of  May,  (so  bright  and  warm  in 
Italy  and  Virginia,  and  so  delightful  in  English  poetry,  although 
so  cold  and  dreary  in  both  old  and  new  England)  young  Mr. 
Spiffard  arrived  safely  at  his  native  village  of  Spiffard-town,  in 
She  beautiful  valley  of  Long-pond. 

Spiffard-town  had  grown  faster  than  our  Zeb.  Two  new 
steeples  decorated  the  hill,  proving  freedom,  and,  of  course, 
diversity  of  opinion.  No  old  church  claiming  infallibility 
and  exclusive  right  of  sway  over  the  minds  and  actions  of  men, 
because  it  could  trace  its  origin  to  the  times  of  mental  dark 
ness,  was  here  suffered  to  blast  the  seed  or  the  growth  of  God's 
word,  and  man's  happiness. 

The  melancholy  thoughts  which  were  suggested  to  the  mind 
•of  our  hero  as  he  approached  the  place,  were  dissipated,  by 
the  air  of  improvement,  and  vigorous  youth,  that  new  houses, 
recently  cleared  fields,  with  all  the  signs  of  a  thriving  commu- 


We  return  home. — Medicine  and  Theology  in  Vermont.  89 

nity  presented  to  his  eyes  as  he  rode  to  the  stage-house,  de 
nominated  the  United  States  Hotel,  and  Spiffard-town  Coffee 
House.  Neither  the  house  nor  its  master  had  ever  been  seen 
by  him  before,  and  unknowing  and  unknown  he  passed  on  to 
his  father's  residence,  after  seeing  his  baggage  in  the  safe  cus 
tody  of  the  bar.  As  he  approached  the  parental  dwelling,  he 
was  struck  by  the  external  marks  of  premature  decay.  This 
strongly  contrasted  with  the  youthful  freshness  of  the  newly 
erected  houses  he  had  passed.  They  were  neat  and  tastefully 
painted  white,  with  green  blinds.  The  neglect  on  his  father's 
premises  told  a  tale  of  sorrow.  The  white  paint  had  not  been 
renewed  since  he  left  the  village,  and  the  once  cheerful  face 
of  home  was  spotted  like  an  Indian  with  the  leprosy,  as  if 
giving  note  of  the  diseased  state  of  things  within.  The'palings 
of  the  court-yard  fence  were  broken,  and  the  gate  hung  by 
one  hinge.  A  pane  of  glass  in  one  of  the  upper  windows  had 
been  broken,  and  its  place  was  supplied  by  an  old  white  hat. 

Every  heart-sinking  thought  that  had  occurred  to  the  sensi 
tive  youth  during  his  journey,  was  revived,  and  rushed  upon 
him  with  double  force:  the  recollections  of  his  boyhood  came  not 
as  bright  visions  of  past  joy,  but  as  images  of  loathsome  reali 
ties — long  detested,  and  oft  banished — ever  returning,  and  now 
mingled  with  misgivings  increased  at  every  step  and  by  every 
object  that  met  his  view. 

A  cold  rain  added,  (to  the  sufferings  of  his  mind,)  those  phy 
sical  achings,  shiverings  and  chills,  which  must  be  taken  into 
the  account  of  the  estimate  of  all  mortal  woe  or  weal,  whether 
identified  and  specified  or  not ;  and  as  Spiffard-town  was  with  ] 
out  pavements,  the  slippery  rain-wet-clay,  and  occasional  mud 
pits  in  his  path,  by  no  means  cheered  his  walk  or  alleviated  the 
gloom,  within  or  without. 

He  passed  through  the  disabled  gate  and  pushed  open  the 
house-door,  which  had  never  been  garnished  by  lock,  and  now 
.  had  no  latch.  The  old  house-dog  growled  as  he  entered  the 
street  door,  but  the  next  moment  wagged  his  tail,  tried  to  look 
in  his  face  with  eyes  covered  by  the  film  of  old  age,  licked  his 
hand,  and  whined  a  mournful  note  of  recognition.  But  poor 
old  Cato,  like  all  that  the  youth  had  seen  on  his  return  to  his 
native  place,  bore  the  marks  of  neglect  and  decay  ;  and  al 
though  his  greetings  were  meant  to  be  cordial,  they  took 
naught  from  the  weight  which  oppressed  the  young  man's  heart. 
He  turned  into  the  well-known  "keeping  room,"  which  appeared 
as  if  diminished  to  half  its  former  size.  Here  he  found  the  first 
human  creature  that  had  greeted  him.  In  tne  first  apart- 


90   We  return  home. — Medicine  and  Theology  in  Vermont. 

ment  that  he  entered — the  room  where  in  days  of  yore  he  had 
mingled  with  the  family  in  all  domestic  appliances,  he  saw  a 
little  girl,  too  young  to  be  left  unattended,  who  was  sitting  on 
the  floor  by  the  hearth,  and  near  to  the  remains  of  a  fire  : 
.<he  looked  at  him  with  a  vacant  stare,  and  said,  whiningly, 
"  Mama's  in  the  bed-room." 

This  was  his  sister — his  mother's  youngest  child.  He  bent 
down  to  kiss  her,  but  was  repulsed  with  an  exclamation,  "  Go 
along  !  you  are  an  ugly  man  !  Don't  come  here  again !" 

"  And  where  is  your  papa?' 

"  Gone  for  the  doctor." 

Poor  SpifTard  !  he  felt  as  though  all  his  misgivings  and  surmi 
ses  were  realized.  Hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  the  youth 
again  attempted  to  kiss  his  sister,  although  her  neglected  ap 
pearance  little  tempted  him  to  the  act ;  he  wanted  to  touch,  in 
sympathy,  some  being  to  whom  his  blood  had  affinity — he  could 
have  wept  upon  the  bosom  of  the  child — but  she  turned  from 
him  with  "  Go  along  !  You  are  ugly  !  Don't  come  here  any 
more  !  They  are  all  in  the  bed-room." 

At  this  moment  his  father  and  the  doctor  entered.  Spiffard 
saw  that  in  less  than  three  years  his  father  had  become  an  old 
man. 

We  will  pass  over  the  particulars  of  his  reception  by  his  un 
fortunate,  kind-hearted  father,  and  his  interview  with  his 
wretched  mother,  who  was  sinking  into  the  grave,  mind  and 
body  exhausted,  conscious  of  the  cause  of  her  own  and  her  hus 
band's  misery — tortured  by  the  fears  of  death,  and  an  eternity 
for  which  she  was  little  prepared.  But  a  scene  had  passed  in 
the  young  man's  presence,  previous  to  his  meeting  with  the  un 
happy  invalid,  which  we  must  briefly  notice.  Such  scenes 
would  be  often  repeated,  if  the  medical  men  of  our  country  towns, 
had,  generally,  the  good  sense  and  determined  spirit  of  the  phy 
sician  who,  as  above  mentioned,  had  been  brought,  by  her  hus 
band,  to  visit  Mrs.  Spiffard. 

The  usual  medical  attendant  upon  the  sick  woman,  was  a 
young  professor  of  the  healing  art,  who  dwelt  in  Spiffard-town, 
and  had  to  establish  himself  in  the  world  of  Long-pond,  by 
yielding  to  the  whims  of  patients,  nurses,  and  visiters,  temporal 
and  spiritual ;  but  the  person  now  introduced  to  the  house,  and 
not  for  the  first  time,  was  Dr.  Woodward,  a  man  of  long  esta 
blished  reputation  for  skill  and  knowledge,  who  lived  near 
twenty  miles  off,  and  only  came  thus  far  when  called  on  parti 
cular  occasions.  He  had  long  attended  the  family  of  Spiffard, 
when  the  urgency  of  the  case  required  his  presence,  and  at  all 


Wt  return  home — Medicine  and  Theology  in  Vermont.  91 

times  advised  and  directed  the  practice  of  the  younger  and  re 
sident  physician. 

Woodward  was  a  rough-hewn  yankee  ;  a  man  of  talents, 
study,  and  experience.  Soon  after  entering  the  house,  he  had 
left  the  son  and  father  together,  and  with  the  familiarity  of  an 
old  acquaintance  and  veteran  practitioner,  licensed  so  to  do,  had 

fone  into  the  chamber  of  the  sick  woman.  Zeb  and  his  father 
ad  scarcely  exchanged  those  greetings  the  occasion  required, 
and  their  feelings  prompted  ;  those  inquiries  on  the  son's  part,, 
respecting  his  father's  and  his  mother's  condition,  had  been  but 
hegun,  (inquiries  that  were  answered  more  fully  by  the  son's 
presentiments  than  by  the  father's  words,)  before  Woodward 
abruptly  entered,  and  addressed  Spiffard  thus  : 

"  I  have  told  you,  squire,  before  this,  that  those  cursed  var 
mint  of  croaking  men  and  canting  women  are  killing  your  wife. 
And  now  I  tell  you,  once  for  all,  that  you  needn't  send  for,  or 
come  for  me  again,  unless  you  give  me  absolute  power  over 
the  sick  chamber  and  the  patient." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Doctor?" 

**  Murder's  the  matter  !  murder!  You  promised  me  that  no 
one  should  be  allowed  to  disturb  the  poor  critter.  I  told  you 
that  all  the  chance  she  had  from  my  medicine  was  by  keeping 
her  mind  quiet ;  and  I  told  Dr.  Chubs  the  same.  But  he's 
young,  and  thinks  he  musen't  forbid  that  fellow  coming  with  his 
bellows  and  furnace,  because  he  has  got  a  barn  to  preach  in, 
and  fools  to  groan  with  him.  If  she  wants  a  clergyman,  you 
jiave  one  at  hand  in  Parson  Wilford,  who  knows  his  duty  to 
God  and  man,  as  far  as  I  know." 

"  And  have  they  taken  advantage  of  my  absence  while  going 
to  call  you  ?  I  ordered  the  nurse  to  admit  no  one." 

44  The  room  is  full.  That  yellow-faced  crow,  Martin,  who 
couldn't  live  by  goose  and  cabbage,  as  a  tailor,  is  howling  like 
a  wolf;  and  a  wolf  he  is  in  sheep's  clothing :  and  a  dozen 
women  are  groaning  and  sobbing  like  a  camp-meeting ;  while- 
your  wife  lies  frightened  into  hysterics,  and  will  die — and 
quickly  too,  if  not  rescued  from  the  philistines." 

"I  will  be  obeyed,"  said  the  husband  ;  and  was  going — 

*'  Stop !"  said  Woodward  ;  "  do  you  give  me  full  powers  ?" 

'*  Yes.     Your  orders  shall  be  obeyed !" 

4k  Then  stay  you  here.  I'll  give  them  a  touch  of  my  prac- 
lice." 

Woodward  again  entered  the  sick  woman's  chamber.  Spif 
fard  stood  like  a  statue,  waiting  the  event.  His  father  paced  the 
ro«m.  A  noise,  like  the  confusion  of  a  miniature  Babel,  as- 


92     We  return  home — Medicine  and  Theology  in  Vermont. 

sailed  their  ears  in  every  key  (though  not  in  every  language,) 
that  the  human  voice  can  be  screwed  to  by  passion.  Wood 
ward  re-entered,  literally  dragging  the  yellow-faced  crow — the 
preaching  tailor,  into  the  "  keeping-room,"  by  the  collar  of  his 
coat,  and  followed  by  a  mob  of  vociferous  women.  The  phy 
sician,  the  captured  crow,  the  nurse,  and  every  female,  young 
or  old,  protested,  railed,  exclaimed,  squeaked,  or  shouted. 
Every  voice  was  exerted  to  the  utmost,  and  they  were  of  every 
pitch  and  compass,  from  the  commanding,  deep-toned  bass  of 
the  doctor,  and  the  hoarse  croaking  of  the  crow,  to  the  cracked 
treble  of  goody  Stubs,  the  nurse.  The  tumult  ceased  a  little, 
as  some  of  the  out-criers  saw  that  a  stranger  was  present. 

"  Have  you  no  respect  for  my  cloth  ?"  said  the  tailor. 

"Yes,"  said  the  physician,  "  when  you  are  stitching  it  in  the 
way  of  your  vocation,  and  in  your  proper  place,  mounted  on 
your  shop-board  ;  but  none  for  you,  or  your  cloth,  when  stuck 
up  in  a  pulpit,  you  make  it  a  covering  for  ignorance  and  kna 
very,  or  intrude  your  noisy  fanaticism  where  peace  and  rest  are 
necessary  to  alleviate  suffering.'' 

"  I  give  you  warning  !" 

"  And  I  again  warn  you  not  to  interfere  with  my  practice. 
When  you  spoiled  my  coat,  I  let  it  pass  ;  but  you 'shan't  kill 
my  patients." 

"  0,  the  blasphemous  ruffian  !"  exclaimed  a  squeaking 
voice. 

'*  I  will  save  her  precious  soul !"  cried  the  tailor. 

"  I'll  maul  your  onprecious  body,  you  croaking  cormorant, 
if  ever  you  intrude  within  my  province  again." 

"  I'll  do  my  duty." 

"  And  I'll  do  my  duty,  you  carrion-crow,  and  prevent  mur 
der  ;  which  the  sight  of  your  yellow  face,  and  the  sound  of  your 
sepulchral  voice  has  more  than  once  caused,  by  terrifying  the 
weak,  and  bringing  despair  to  the  convalescent.  If  you  knew 
your  duty,  since  you  cannot  cut  the  pattern  of  a  pair  of  breeches 
without  spoiling  them,  you  would  make  yourself  useful  by  cut 
ting  down  trees,  and  ploughing  up  new  land  with  a  team  of 
stout  oxen  ;  but  you  plough  with  other  men's  heifers,  you  phi- 
listine.  You  find  it  more  pleasant  to  manage  a  flock  of  geese, 
whom  you  can  pluck,  than  to  wield  one  goose  in  the  miserable 
garret  you  have  exchanged  for  that  barn,  you  call  a  tabernacle." 

While  speaking,  Woodward  kept  fast  hold  of  Martin's  col 
lar,  and  with  a  hand  like  a  blacksmith's  vice,  and  an  arm  of 
iron,  had  by  this  time  dragged  him  from  the  keeping-room  into 
the  hall  or  entry ;  then  thrusting  him  towards  the  street-door, 


We  return  home. — Medicine  and  Theology  in  Vermont.  93 

he  continued,  "  When  I  give  over  my  patients,  which  is  no 
till  death  takes  them  out  of  my  hands,  then  come  and  catter- 
waul  over  them  if  you  like  ;  but  if  I  can  prevent  it,  you  shall 
not  help  to  kill  them — that's  my  business."  He  then  returned, 
crying  out  to  those  who  lagged,  "  Come  !  clear  out,  all  of  you ! 
out !  out  with  you  !"  he  said,  as  he  pushed  the  tailor's  admirers 
to  the  door,  "  follow  your  leader !" 

"  Mr.  Spiffard,  do  you  suffer  us  to  be  turned  out  of  your 
house  ?" 

"  Yes,  neighbours,  I  desire  you  to  leave  the  place  for  the 
present.  You  know  that  I  have  requested  that — " 

"  No  ceremony,"  said  Woodward,  "  it  is  life  or  death.  I  go, 
or  they  go." 

"  You  will  repent  this  in  fire  and  brimstone  ;  in  the  bottom 
less"— 

"  Any  where,  Goody  Crank,  out  of  your  company."  The 
doctor  having  made  a  clear  coast  by  putting  the  last  of  the  vi- 
siters  out,  turned  to  the  nurse,  "  Look  ye,  Mrs.  Stubs,  I  gave 
you  orders  not  to  let  that  fellow  and  those  women  murder  the 
person  entrusted  to  your  care,  by  frightening  her  into  her  cof 
fin  before  you  and  I  have  done  with  her  ;  and  I  now  tell  yout 
that  if  you  permit  any  more  of  mis  infernal  catterwauling  where 
I  have  a  patient,  I  will  present  you  to  the  grand  jury  as  a  nui 
sance,  if  not  an  accessory  in  killing  by  torture — or  murdering 
under  false  pretences." 

"  Mr.  Doctor,  I  have  too  much  feeling  for  the  soul  of — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  woman  !  You  are  employed  to  take 
care  of  Mrs.  Spiffard's  body ! — what  do  you  know  about  peo 
ple's  souls  ?  Ah !  here  comes  one  to  whom  I  am  willing  to 
entrust  my  patients,  body  and  soul." 

At  that  moment  a  venerable  man  in  a  rusty  black  coat,  over 
the  collar  of  which  descended  his  silver-white  hair,  was  seen 
descending  from  one  of  those  four-wheeled  vehicles,  since 
called  dearborns.  He  entered  without  knocking,  and  with  the 
courtesy  of  a  gentleman,  the  bland  air  and  cheerful  counte 
nance  of  an  apostle  of  the  religion  of  love,  he  saluted  the  Doc 
tor  and  the  elder  Spiffard. 

"  You  have  had  a  numerous  company  I  see  by  the  many  de 
parting  guests.  Has  any  thing  new  occurred?" 

"  No,  Mr.  Wilford,  the  old  story !  Murdering  my  patients 
— taking  my  trade  out  of  my  hands.  I  am  legally  authorized 
to  kill,  and  you  have  heaven's  sanction  and  that  of  your  own 
conscience,  to  preach  peace  to  those  I  dismiss  to  a  better  world, 
if  you  find  them  fit  for  it ;  I  am  willing  to  practice  with  you,  but 


94   We  return  home. — Medicine  and  Theology  in  Vermont. 

I  am  chafed  when  I  see  all  I  can  do  to  help  the  sick,  undone 
by  ignorant  impudent  hypocrites." 

"  God  only  knows  the  heart,  Doctor  Woodward." 

"  But  man  can  judge  of  the  heart  by  the  actions,  Mr.  Wil- 
ford.  Now,  there  are  no  two  critters  on  God's  earth  more 
dissimilar  in  most  things,  than  you  and  I  are  :  yet  no  man  ever 
thought  either  of  us  a  hypocrite.  But  whether  that  stay-tape- 
and-buckram-fellow,  who  has  half  the  women  of  the  country  at 
his  beck,  is  hypocrite  or  fanatic,  he  must  not  interfere  with  my 
patients.  I  can  do  my  own  business — ask  the  sexton,  if  you 
doubt  iU" 

"  You  are  severe  upon  neighbour  Martin,  Doctor.  I  fear 
you  are  intolerant  in  your  religious  creed." 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  in  that,  a  disciple  of  Roger  Williams  and 
Harry  Vane.  Let  every  man  worship  his  own  way  ;  I  object 
not,  provided  he  does  not  serve  the  devil.  I  call  no  one  infidel 
or  heretic  for  believing  more  or  less  than  I  believe  ;  but  I  re 
sist  the  despotism  of  man  over  the  conscience,  whether  he  be  a 
tailor,  a  bishop,  or  a  pope." 

"  May  I  let  Mr.  Wilford  into  Mrs.  Spiffard's  chamber,  sir?-7 
asked  the  nurse. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Stubs,  he  is  a  physician  for  the  soul.  How 
ever,  remember,  he  don't  want  any  female  apothecaries  to  as 
sist  him.  But  first  I  will  visit  my  patient,  and  do  you  attend 
me,  and  mind  my  directions." 

Thus  saying,  the  eccentric  physician,  attended  by  the  nurse, 
retired,  leaving  the  two  Spiffards,  father  and  son,  with  the  vene 
rable  minister  of  the  gospel  of  peace. 

In  the  infinite  variety  of  contrasts  which  the  human  family- 
presents  to  view,  no  two  characters  can  form  a  greater  than  we 
see  in  the  enlightened  and  benevolent  disciple  of  the  Christian 
religion,  who  sees  in  his  God  a  father,  and  in  his  neighbour  a 
brother,  and  one  of  those  ignorant  egotistical  men  who  represent 
every  one  as  an  enemy  to  religion,  and  a  child  of  perdition,  who 
does  not  believe  that  the  Author  of  all  Good  is  in  a  state  of 
eternal  wrath  with  the  creatures  on  whom  he  is  showering, 
every  blessing.  Mr.  Wilford  nursed  the  sick,  (if  his  personal 
aid  was  needed,)  soothed  the  suffering,  instructed  the  ignorant,, 
and  engaged  the  wise  in  active  plans  of  benevolence  ;  not  to 
promote  an  exclusive  sect,  or  propagate  exclusive  doctrinesr 
(for  he  opposed  no  doctrines  but  those  which  prohibited  liberty 
of  conscience,)  but  to  spread  that  knowledge  which  teaches 
charity  and  forbearance  towards  others,  with  doubts  of  self,  and 
confidence  in  God. 


We  return  koine. — Medicine  and  Theology  in  Vewnont*  95 

Happily  truth  must  prevail.  Those  dangerous  doctrines 
which  enslave  men  politically  under  the  mask  of  religion,  are 
sinking  into  contempt  and  abhorrence  with  the  tyrannies  which 
supported  them,  and  are  supported  by  them.  The  struggle 
may  yet  be  protracted,  for  with  the  tyrants  of  the  earth,  and 
their  emissaries,  it  is  a  struggle  for  existence  :  but  neither  force 
nor  art  can  prevail  against  knowledge  which  has  gained  the 
sanction  of  experience.  Those  monstrous  errors  which  claim 
authority  from  an  antiquity  surrounded  by  the  darkness  of  the 
middle  ages,  and  stained  with  the  crimes  of  murder,  havoc,  and 
massacre,  inflicted  upon  those  who  saw  a  beam  of  light,  and 
held  fast  to  opinion  for  conscience  sake — those  errors,  will  be 
known  hereafter  only  to  raise  the  wonder  of  the  hearer  or 
reader,  that  such  fatal  absurdity  could  have  existed. 


CHAPTER  XL 

We  go  to  England,  and  what  ive  did  there. 

"Reason  and  love  keep  little  company  together  now  a  days." 

"  I  can  get  no  remedy  against  this  consumption  of  the  purse :  borrow 
ing  only  lingers  and  lingers  it  out;  but  the  disease  is  incurable." 

"  Consent  upon  a  sure  foundation ; 

know  our  own  estate, 

How  able  such  a  work  to  undergo, 

or  else"  we  are 

"Likeone  who  draws  the  model  of  a  house 
Beyond  his  power  to  build  it;  who  half  through 
Gives  o'er,  and  leaves  his  part  created  cost 
A  naked  subject  to  the  weeping  clouds, 
And  waste  for  churlish  winter's  tyranny." 

l<  It  is  a  figure  in  rhetoric,  that  drink  being  poured  out  of  a  cup  into  a 
glass,  by  filling  the  one,  doth  empty  the  other." 

"Home-keeping  youths  have  ever  homely  wits." 

"Now  worth  this,  and  now  worth  nothing." 

Shakspeare. 

As  we  are  writing  the  memoirs  of  Zebediah  SpifTard,  and 
not  of  his  mother,  we  will  be  as  brief  as  possible  in  all  that  re 
mains  to  be  said  respecting  this  weak  and  unhappy  woman. 

It  is  generally  acknowledged  that  there  is  considerable  af- 


96  We  go  to  England,  and  what  we  did  there. 

finity  between  a  man  and  his  mother  :  and  Zeb  was  not  an  ex 
ception  to  the  rule — if  rule  it  be.  He  was  not  only  the  son  of 
his  mother,  but  his  mother's  character  and  conduct  propelled 
him  through  life — they  were  present  to  his  imagination  in 
every  situation,  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

The  thoughts  and  images  that  passed*  through  our  hero's 
jnind  during  the  scene  of  his  reception,  were  never  erased.  He 
found  the  state  of  his  father's  family  worse  than  he  could  have 
imagined  from  any  previous  information  that  he  had  received. 
Of  three  sisters  and  a  brother,  the  two  elder  girls  (feeble  and 
.sickly)  were  at  a  distant  school, — the  boy  was  a  cripple,  and 
almost  an  idiot, — and  the  youngest  girl  was  such  as  we  have 
.described  above.  During  this  visit,  poor  Spiffard  received  im 
pressions,  or  rather  renewed  and  strengthened  those  already 
received,  which  influenced  his  actions  ever  after. 

Owing  to  the  skill  of  Doctor  Woodward,  his  mother  became 
convalescent ;  but  it  was  only  a  flattering  ray  of  light  on  the 
darkness  of  her  condition.  Her  constitution  was  undermined; 
her  feeble  body  and  feeble  mind  could  not  be  sustained. 
There  was  no  redeeming  spring  in  either.  However,  it  was 
-during  the  season  of  hope  and  re-establishment,  that  the  young 
man  took  leave  of  his  father's  house,  and  returned  to  Boston  to 
make  preparations  for  his  European  tour.  His  indulgent  uncle 
furnished  him  with  money  and  credit ;  and  in  due  season,  the 
green-mountain  boy  found  himself  in  the  great  metropolis  of 
the  great  nation  which  he  claimed  as  the  source  from  which  him 
self  and  his  ancestors  issued.  Relatives  of  his  father,  he  knew 
of  none.  No  trace  of  the  noble  family  of  Spiffards  existed  ; 
but  to  his  mother's  father,  residing  in  Lincolnshire,  he  bore 
letters  ;  and  after  seeing  the  lions  of  London,  he  took  the  mail- 
coach  for  Stamford,  and  there  found  the  house  of  his  grand 
father  a  scene  of  mourning  and  desolation. 

His  mother's  second  sister,  Sophia,  the  beauty  of  the  family, 
the  pet  and  pride  of  her  parents,  had  eloped  with  a  titled  liber 
tine  of  fortune,  one  of  the  hereditary  lawgivers  of  England, 
and  was  living  in  splendour  in  the  great  city  her  nephew  had 
just  left.  In  the  lap  of  luxury,  devoted  to  infamy,  she  was 
flattered  by  being  the  admired  of  depravity,  though  condemned 
to  be  the  companion  of  libertinism  and  prostitution.  Her  fall 
and  flight  had  murdered  her  mother.  Her  father,  sinking  to 
the  grave,  was  supported  in  penurious  gentility  by  the  energy 
and  industry  of  the  youngest  daughter,  (who  was  a  child  when 
in  America,)  one  who  had  been  the  neglected  of  her  foolish  pa- 


We  go  to  England,  and  what  we  did  there.  97 

rents,  .because  plain  in  person,  and  retiring  in  manners  ;  but 
who  had  cultivated  a  mind  of  quick  perception  so  as  to  rear 
the  fruit  of  filial  piety  ;  and  was  adorned  by  that  knowledge  and 
those  virtues  which  shine  brightest  when  the  darkness  of  adver 
sity  falls  on  all  around  :  like  the  good  deed  of  the  poet  "  in  a 
naughty  world."  Such  was  Eliza  Atherton. 

Spifiard  was  not  made  acquainted  with  the  fall  of  his  aunt 
Sophia.  He  was  told  in  such  a  manner,  that  they  had  lost 
Mrs.  Atherton  and  Sophia,  as  to  lead  him  to  suppose  both  dead. 
Eliza  said  nothing  on  the  subject ;  and  her  father  was  confined 
to  a  sick  chamber.  The  young  man  felt  that  there  was  a  mys 
tery,  but  did  not  feel  authorized  to  pry  into  it ;  he  saw  that  his 
grandfather  was  in  poverty;  he  admired  his  remaining  aunt;  and 
he  did  his  duty. 

The  first  thing  our  yarikee  water-drinker  did,  after  leaving 
his  grandfather  and  aunt,  was  to  purchase  a  small  annuity  for 
ihe  two  lives,  and  transmit  the  necessary  papers  to  them  from 
London.  This  left  him  almost  without  funds,  but  he  felt  richer 
and  happier  for  the  transaction.  Before  visiting  the  European 
continent,  he  determined  to  await  the  answers  he  should  receive 
from  his  uncle,  to  whom  he  communicated  the  particulars  of 
his  journey,  and  made  him  acquainted  with  the  disposal  of  his 
funds,  and  the  paucity  of  the  trifle  which  yet  remained  to  his 
credit,  with  the  banker. 

His  passion  for  the  theatre  was  indulged,  and  grew  with  in 
dulgence.  It  was  connected  with  his  love  of  literature.  It 
was  a  love  for  the  drama,  not  for  the  playhouse.  The  desire 
to  become  an  actor  was  revived.  He  had  leisure  to  acquire 
those  accomplishments  so  essential  to  the  profession.  He  stu 
died  music,  instrumental  and  vocal,  assiduously;  while  the  prac 
tice  of  the  sword  of  every  description,  and  of  dancing,  gave  him 
that  ease  of  deportment  so  necessary  to  those  who  aspire  to 
please  on  the  stage.  Zeb's  voice  was  powerful  and  of  great 
compass.  Ho  became  a  first-rate  burlctta  singer,  and  his  ac 
curate  ear,  by  cultivation,  led  to  taste  and  execution  which  few 
could  rival.  Always  active  and  athletic,  his  skill  in  fencing 
and  every  sword  exercise,  was  uncommon.  Grace  as  a  dan 
cer  he  could  not  acquire,  and  nature  had  denied  him  stature  for 
the  heroic  in  tragedy,  or  beauty  of  form  or  face,  to  compensate 
the  deficiency. 

There  was,  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  writing,  and  perhaps 
still  is,  a  theatre  for  amateur  performers,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Soho  Square,  to  which  SpMfard  had  been  invited.  Here  he- 
soon  found  a  congenial  spirit,  in  some  respects,  and  became 


98  We  go  to  England,  and  what  we  did  there. 

intimate  with  him.  This  was  Thomas  Hilson,  so  well  known 
in  America  for  his  histrionic  talents.  To  Hilson,  Spiffard  com 
municated  his  desire  to  tread  the  stage  for  amusement,  and 
Tom  promised  him  a  trial. 

"What  part  shall  it  be?" 

"  Alexander  the  Great." 

"  Oh,  no,  no, — you  are  not  up  to  that  by  a  foot." 

"  Alexander  was  not  tall." 

"  Always  six  feet  on  the  stage.     Suppose  you  try  Scrub  ?" 

Never  was  poor  hero  more  cut  down.  By  way  of  compro 
mise,  it  was  at  length  decided  that  he  should  play  Young  Nor- 
val,  and  appear  as  Caleb  Quotem  in  the  farce. 

The  important  night  came.  Zeb  exerted  his  heroics  and 
pathetics  manfully;  he  was  very  serious,  and  the  audience  very 
merry.  At  length  he  died,  to  the  great  relief  of  the  company, 
who  applauded  long  and  loud.  The  mist  which  besets  young 
actors  on  first  appearances,  and  had  enveloped  Zeb's  mental 
faculties,  during  the  tragedy,  was  not  fully  dispelled,  but  he  had 
an  awkward  kind  of  uncomfortable  notion  that  all  was  not  as  it 
ought  to  be  in  his  reception.  Hilson  assisted  to  prepare  him 
for  Caleb.  The  tragedians  of  the  company  complimented  him 
on  his  success  in  Norval,  with  as  much  sincerity  as  if  they 
belonged  to  a  regular  Theatre  Royal.  Hilson  said  nothing  on 
the  subject.  The  farce  began,  and  if  the  audience  laughed  a! 
the  tragedy,  they  laughed  ten  times  more  with  the  comedy  of 
the  new  performer.  But  when  he  gave  the  songs,  the  plaudits 
were  so  dissimilar  from  those  Young  Norval  had  received,  that 
the  mist  was  dispelled,  and  Zeb  saw  plainly  that  he  was  no  tra 
gedian — at  least  in  the  opinion  of  his  auditors.  He  felt  that 
his  powers  for  creating  merriment  and  delighting  by  song,  were 
rapturously  acknowledged  by  all.  Hilson  shook  him  by  the 
hand,  and  without  any  of  that  paltry  feeling  which  rivalry  is 
supposed  to  generate  among  artists  of  all  descriptions,  wel 
comed  the  yankee  as  a  brother,  and  true  son  of  Thalia. 

This  was  our  hero's  golden  age — his  days  were  e&tdeur  de 
rose,  and  the  intoxication  of  applause  rendered  his  nights,  it 
not  peaceful,  yet  pleasant.  No  other  intoxication  had  charms 
for  him.  He  drank  water,  to  the  astonishment  of  hi$  male 
companions  ;  and  the  ladies  thought  him  utterly  devoid  of  feel 
ing.  He  never  saw  the  preparations  for  riot  or  revelry,  or  wit 
nessed  its  effects,  without  thinking  of  his  father's  house ;  or 
looked  on  the  smiles  which  were  meant  to  allure,  but  that  the 
desolation  he  had  witnessed  at  Stamford,  was  shadowed  to  his 
imagination.  The  egis  of  Minerva  presented  an  image  which 


IVe  go  to  England,  and  what  ivt  did  there.  99 

turned  the  beholder  to  stone.  The  images  impressed  upon 
Spiffard  at  home,  and  in  Lincolnshire,  made  memory  an  regis 
against  the  assaults  of  vice.  The  conduct  of  his  grandfather 
and  youngest  aunt,  in  respect  to  me  lost  daughter  and  sister, 
had  appeared  mysterious  to  him,  and  although  he  had  not  pryed 
into  that  which  they  did  not  think  fit  to  reveal,  he,  since,  had 
recollected  circumstances  and  words,  which  to  his  quick  mind, 
told  the  tale  of  a  sorrow  worse  than  poverty  or  disease  can  in 
flict. 

News  from  »home  was  tardy  in  arriving.  SpifFard's  money 
was  exhausted.  His  uncle's  banker  would  advance  no  more. 
He  found  himself  under  the  necessity  of  playing  for  bread,  in 
stead  of  playing  for  amusement.  Once  more  he  tried  his  tra 
gic  powers.  He  was  permitted  to  appear  at  one  of  the  great 
Theatres  Royal,  (not  yet  like  all  royals,  shorn  of  their  beams,) 
in  Othello  :  but  he  was  overwhelmed  by  an  lago  of  six  feet.  It 
was  remembered  that  Garrick  had  declined  Othello,  for  fear  of 
being  compared  to  a  black  pompey  handing  the  tea-kettle,  and 
that  he  had  refused  to  play  to  Barry's  lago,  thinking  he  might 
be  said  to  bully  the  monument.  Spiffard  was  condemned  for 
want  of  height,  by  those  who  were  in  raptures  at  the  physical  and 
mental  powers  of  the  baby  actors  who  wielded  the  broad-sword 
or  bullied  the  towering  Palmers,  Popes,  and  Barrymoces  of  the 
stage.  Again  the  comic  powers  and  the  musical  skill  of  our 
hero  rescued  him  from  utter  failure,  and  he  went  down  to  the 
provincial  theatres  as  a  star,  though  not  suffered  to  shine  per 
manently  in  that  heaven  of  the  English  theatrical  system — 
London. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  follow  our  hero  from  Bath  to  Bris 
tol,  from  Manchester  to  Liverpool.  We  are  principally  con 
cerned  in  his  adventures  and  his  fate  in  America.  We  only 
wish  to  account  for  the  uncommon  success  of  a  yankee  green- 
mountain  boy,  on  the  metropolitan  stage  of  New  York,  where 
we  found  him  one  of  the  principal  low  comedians,  at  the  open 
ing  of  our  story,  which  we  now  hasten  to  pursue  for  the  gratifi 
cation  of  our  impatient  readers.  But  we  shall  have  to  show 
how  his  expected  fortune  vanished, — how  he  became  per 
manently  an  actor,  and  the  husband  of  the  lady  who  made  him 
as  happy  as  he  appeared  to  be  at  the  commencement  of  our 
memoir,  by  the  gift  of  her  hand. 

The  first  is  a  very  short  story,  and  the  second  not  much 
longer.  Most  of  my  readers  will  remember  how  often  hope 
has  been  disappointed ;  and  many  a  Benedict  will  bear  me  out 
ia  the  assertion  that  there  are  those  who  say  they  will  live  ba- 


100  We  go  to  England,  andwliat  we  did  there. 

chelors,  and  only  keep  their  promise — until  they  are  married. 
Our  hero  feared  the  fate  of  his  father  :  but  no  person  on  earth 
was  less  like  his  mother  than  Mrs.  Trowbridge:  the  towering  in 
person  and  thought,  the  high-minded,  fire-eyed,  black-browed 
Mrs.  Trowbridge. 

As  to  fortune,  we  Americans  know  that  men  become  rich 
or  poor  as  quickly  as  a  scene  changes  at  a  theatre  from  a  pa 
lace  to  a  prison  at  the  slap  of  a  Harlequin's  sword.  Zeb's 
riches  were  only  in  expectancy  ;  and  such  are  of  the  least  sub 
stantial  kind.  You,  Mr.  Broker,  expected  to  make  ten  thou 
sand  dollars  by  the  rise  of  stocks  :  they  fell,  and  you  lost  what 
you  never  had.  You,  young  gentleman,  expected  a  fortune  at 
the  death  of  your  father,  and  lo  !  lie  is  a  bankrupt.  And  you, 
Madam,  the  lovely  mother  of  those  two  fine  boys,  though  your 
husband  possessed  millions,  you  live  to  see  them  dependant — 
perhaps  happily — on  their  own  exertions  for  bread.  Our  heros* 
fortune  was  lost  to  him  by  the  simple  circumstance,  that  his 
good  old  uncle  Abraham,  who  had  deferred  making  that  will 
which  was  to  make  his  nephew  rich,  died  unexpectedly,  like  a 
great  many  other  old  men,  although  every  step  he  took  might 
have  warned  him  that  he  was  tottering  to  the  tomb.  He  died 
unexpectedly  of  apoplexy,  though  neither  fat  nor  short-necked, 
and  his  property  devolved  on  his  brother.  This  would  have 
been  no  source  of  grief  to  the  right-minded  Zebediah,  if  that 
brother  (his  father)  could  have  been  made  happier  thereby ; 
but  his  mother,  who  had  been  partially  restored  to  health  by 
the  skilful  Doctor  Woodward,  and  the  benevolent  Mr.  Wilford, 
sunk  under  the  loss  of  children  who  were  the  victims  of  her 
misconduct ;  and  her  husband  lived  but  two  weeks  after  her — 
just  long  enough  to  make  him  the  legal  heir  of  his  brother,  and 
thereby  deprive  his  son  of  the  inheritance.  He  had  been  in 
duced  to  buy  lands  on  credit,  to  a  great  amount,  in  a  cold  and 
barren  northern  region  of  the  State  of  New  York;  he  had  bor 
rowed  money  to  a  large  amount  on  interest ;  his  property  had 
been  so  neglected  of  late  years,  that  even  the  estate  left  by  his 
brother  was  insufficient  to  satisfy  his  creditors;  and  his  son,  in 
stead  of  being  a  man  of  independent  fortune,  was  only  an  inde 
pendent  man.  Independent  he  was,  as  he  possessed  youth, 
health,  habits  of  temperance,  and  a  profession  for  which  he  was 
well  qualified. 

When  Mr.  Thomas  Apthorpe  Cooper  went  to  England  in 
search  of  recruits  for  the  New  York  theatre,  his  experienced 
eye  and  ear  determined  him  to  engage  Spiffard,  whom  he  found 
starring  it  at  Liverpool.  The  success  of  the  comedian  was 


We  come  lack  to  the  sfyrting  plact.  K)£  ^ 

great  at  New  York,  his  love  of  tragedy  led  him  to  become  an 
admirer  of  Mrs.  Trowbridge.  Her  talents  in  her  profession, 
her  decided  manner,  her  ready  wit,  added  to  her  known  appro 
bation  of  his  efforts  as  an  actor,  fixed  him  as  a  lover  of  the 
lady,  and  then, — but  what  need  \\Q  say  more,  after  saying  that 
he  was  a  lover?  He  was  blind,  and  his  blindness,  added  to  a 
naturally  confiding  disposition,  brought  them  to  that  precise  si 
tuation  in  which  we  found  them  in  the  month  of  October,  in  the 
year  eighteen  hundred  and  eleven,  when  we  introduced  them  to 
the  reader. 

Between  the  time  of  Spiffard's  return  to  America,  and  his  mar 
riage,  the  manager  of  the  New  York  theatre  had  sent  out  George 
Frederick  Cooke,had  come  back  to  the  United  States  himself, 
had  enriched  the  theatrical  world  with  Hilson — and  many  other- 
events,  in  the  real  and  mimic  world,  had  occurred,  of  which  we 
say  nothing,  and  perhaps  know  as  little  as  we  say.  We  gladly 
return  to  the  point  at  which  we  left  the  actors  in  our  drama,  and 
now  pursue  our  story  with  as  few  deviations  as  the  nature  of 
the  case  (and  the  information  necessary  to  be  imparted  to  our 
readers)  will  permit. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

We   come   back   to  the  starting  place — Ji   scene   behind  the 
curtain. 

"No  epilogue,  I  pray  you  ;  for  your  play  needs  no  excuse." 

"This  palpable-gross  play  hath  well  beguiled  the  heavy  gait  of  night.?*" 

"As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool." 

"  Call  me  not  fool  till  heaven  hath  sent  me  fortune." 

"  Since  the  little  wit  that  fools  have,  was  silenced,  the  little  foolery  that 
wise  men  have,  makes  a  great  noise." 

"O  this  learning,  what  a  thing  it  is !" — Shakapeare. 

A  HOPELESS  task  is  before  us.  We  have  a  long  tale  to 
tell,  and  no  chance,  that  we  yet  see,  of  introducing  any  duke, 
marquis,  earl,  baron,  or  even  knight,  into  our  pages.  True, 
even  princes  have  travelled  through  our  republican  land,  and 

VOL.  i.  8 


-  *   We  cme  back  to  the  starting  place. 

other  worthies,  from  dukes  to  M.  r's.  but  we  never  fell  in  with 
them.  We  had  no  dinners  to  give,  nor  palaces  to  show.  And 
in  truth,  we  felt  ashamed  of  our  fellow-citizens,  when  we  saw 
them  running  after,  courting,  and  cringing,  to  creatures,  merely 
because  exalted  by  institutions  whose  injustice  they,  (as  well  as 
every  other  well-informed  man,)  abhor.  We  fear,  gentle  reader, 
that  our  story  must  depend  upon  its  moral  worth,  and  the 
interest  it  may  create,  without  any  showing-ofF  of  the  higher 
orders  of  European  society.  We  have  not  even  a  colonel  or  a 
captain  to  help  us  ;  that  is,  one  who  is  a  hireling  in  a  monarch's 
service.  As  to  an  officer  who  only  serves  God  arid  his  coun 
try — pah  !  we  might  as  well  talk  of  a  police  officer.  We  shall 
speak  of  as  many  foreigners  as  natives,  and  represent  them  as 
we  find  them  ;  good  and  bad,  like  ourselves  ;  but  all  untitled. 
It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  the  greatest  and  best  foreigner  that  ever 
visited  America,  abjured  the  title  inherited  from  his  ancestors  : 
keeping  that,  he  had  earned  in  defence  of  the  rights  of  man. 
It  was  in  the  evening  of  that  same  day,  in  October,  1811, 
which  we  have  chosen  as  the  time  of  commencing  this  history, 
and  near  upon  the  stroke  of  six,  by  the  clock  of  St.  Paul's 
chapel,  that  two  inferior  actors  in  life's  drama  (and  ours,)  sat 
earnestly  conversing  in  the  dressing-room  appropriated  to 
George  Frederick  Cooke,  up  the  stairs  formerly  described, 
in  the  rear  of  the  Park  Theatre.  These  members  of  my  dra 
matis  personse  were,  the  one,  a  tall,  raw-boned,  pale,  native  of 
Massachusetts,  who  having  been  in  London  and  Paris,  and  often 
speaking  of  his  perils  by  land  and  water,  was  called  by  the  in 
mates  of  the  theatre,  ''the  Yankee  traveller" — by  himself,  Mr. 
Cooke's  valet  de  sham.  The  other,  a  short,  square,  red-faced, 
Hibernian,  who  had  found  his  way  from  Dublin  to  the  new 
world,  in  the  capacity  of  a  hair-dresser,  was  at  this  time  a  natu 
ralized  citizen,  and  entertained  no  doubts  but  America  would 
soon,  as  it  ought,  be  governed  by  the  "  ould  country  folk"  from 
Ireland. 

We  have  slightly  noticed  these  persons  before,  but  they  are 
deserving  of  a  more  formal  introduction  to  the  reader  of  this 
tragi-comic-historical-memoir  :  tragi-comic  because  natural; 
for  unmingled  mirth  or  sorrow  is  not  of  this  world. 

The  "  Yankee  traveller"  had  made  a  successful  voyage  to 
the  West  Indies,  and  in  the  true  spirit  of  enterprise,  had  fol 
lowed  up  his  success,  by  investing  all  the  proceeds  of  his  sales 
(of  wooden  ware,)  in  oranges  ;  and  shipping  them,  with  himself 
as  supercargo,  for  London.  The  "  venture''  failed.  Trust 
worthy  Davenport  found  himself,  as  he  used  to  say,  4<  tarna- 
tionly  swampt."  The  oranges  having  proved  more  liable  to  the 


A  tcene  behind  the  curtain.  103 

wet-rot,  than  any  wooden  vessel  is  to  the  dry.  The  orange* 
were  damaged  irrecoverably — utterly  spoiled — and  Trusty,  as 
we  may  call  him  for  brevity,  was  left  nearly  penny  less  in  the 
great  money-craving  world  of  London. 

Nothing  daunted,  he  found  his  way  to  the  American  consul, 
where  he  fortunately  met  Thomas  A.  Cooper,  the  then  American 
Roscius.  Cooper  hearing  him  tell  his  story  with  all  the  real 
straight-forwardness  and  apparent  twistification  of  an  unsophis 
ticated  Yankee,  was  pleased;  and  induced  him  to  engage  as  his 
waiter.  Trusty  asserting  that  he  would  not  call  himself  any 
man's  servant,  except  "at  the  bottom  of  a  letter." 

The  young  tragedian  was  at  this  time  negotiating  with. 
Cooke,  the  older  hero  of  the  buskin,  who,  by  rare  management, 
he  sent  out  to  America  ;  and  he  attached  the  "  Yankee  travel 
ler"  to  George  Frederick,  as  a  safe-guard  to  the  eccentric 
histrion,  and  as  an  assistant  in  the  plan  of  transporting  him  to  a 
new  stage,  for  the  exhibition  of  his  rare  talents. 

There  was  one  stipulation  insisted  upon  by  Trusty,  before 
closing  his  engagement  with  the  manager,  which  caused  some 
delay.     The  "  Yankee  traveller"  proposed  that  he  should  be 
furnished  with  money  in  advance,  and  permitted  to  go  to  Paris, 
before  returning  home.     To  this  the  manager  objected. 
l(  Advance  money  to  a  stranger  !  no,  no,  Jonathan." 
"  If  you  can't  trust  me,  you'd  better  not  employ  me.    I  don't 
want  much.    I'll  walk  all  the  way,  after  crossing  the  channel." 
"  What  do  you  want  to  go  there  for  ?" 
"  To  see  Bonaparte." 

To  this  Cooper  raised  many  objections,  but  Trusty  vowed 
and  swarfd  that  he  had  not  come  so  far  for  nothing  ;  "  and  he 
might  as  well  see  nothing,  as  not  see  the  man  all  the  world  was 
talking  about." 

The  whimsical  character  of  Trusty  so  pleased  the  manager, 
that  after  having  examined,  like  a  man  of  business,  into  the 
traveller's  former  trading  affairs,  and  found  his  story  correct  to 
the  letter,  he  struck  the  bargain,  furnished  him  with  money  to> 
travel  on  foot  to  Paris,  and  back  to  London,  with  a  little  stock 
*'  to  trade  on  ;"  and,  as  Trusty  was  just  now  telling  Dennis, 
he  "  made  more  by  a  speculation  in  teeth  and  hair,  than  he  had 
lost  by  his  rotten  oranges. 

Dennis  O'Dogherty  was  as  little  like  Trustworthy  Daven 
port,  as  Ireland  is  to  Massachusetts  ;  but  he  had  succeeded 
admirably  in  gaining  for  himself  the  snug  and  profitable  occu 
pation  of  dressing  the  hair  of  the  male  actors,  and  manufactur- 


104  We  come  back  to  the  starting  place. 

ing  wigs  for  both  sexes,  (Trusty  supplying  the  raw  material ;) 
besides  furnishing  soap,  candles,  and  flour,  for  cleansing  and 
fitting  for  public  inspection,  those  important  personages  who 
represent  the  "  reverend,  grave,  and  potent  signors,"  before 
whom  Othello  pleads  his  cause  ;  the  masters  of  the  world,  as 
Rome's  senators  ;  or  the  four  and  twenty  champions  of  the  red 
rose  and  the  white,  who  decide  the  fate  of  kings  on  the  bloody 
fields  of  Tewksbury,  and  Bosworth ;  those  heroes  on  whose 
marchings  and  countermarching^,  crowns  and  thrones  and 
empires  halt  or  hang. 

Such  were  the  two  worthies  who  now  occupied  Mr.  Cooke's 
dressing-room,  and  wondered  that  he  did  not  make  his  appear 
ance,  as  he  had  to  begin  the  play,  in  the  character  of  Penrud- 
dock,  and  the  time  of  ringing  up  had  almost  arrived. 

Spiffard,  who  played  Weazle,  occupied  a  dressing-room  in 
common  with  Tyler,  over  that  tenanted  by  Cooke,  had  just 
been  down,  ready  drest  for  his  part,  to  enquire  if  Mr.  Cooke 
had  come,  or  been  heard  from.  The  answer  was  in  the  nega 
tive  ;  and  Spiffard,  after  despatching  a  messenger  for  the  man 
ager,  retired  to  his  room,  leaving  the  Yankee  and  Hibernian  to 
lesume  their  colloquy. 

"  I'm  thinking,"  said  Dennis,  "  there's  about  to  be  a  bother 
to-night,  Mr.  Devilsport." 

"  Davenport — filename's  Davenport,  Mr.  Doghearty." 

"  Sure,  that's  what  I  said  :  and  I'm  thinking  there  will  be  no 
play  to-night,  if  they  can't  play  the  play  widout  Mister  Cooke 
— for  here  lies  his  wig,  and  there  hangs  his  coat.  May  be,  they 
can  play  the  play  widout  Penruddock?" 

"  That  would  be  sufficiently  difficult  in  my  opinion.  Some 
thing  like  enacting  Richard  the  Third,  without  the  Duke  of 
Gloster." 

"  Why,  what  has  the  Duke  of  Gloster  to  do  with  it  V 

"  Mr.  Doghearty,  they  are  one  and  the  same  person.  Rich 
ard  is  Duke  of  Gloster  before  he  is  King  Richard  the  Third." 

*'  You  seem  to  understand  these  things,  Mr.  Devilsport  1" 

"  Davenport,  if  you  please.  I  have  been  but  too  much  at 
tached  to  the  Dramma."  Trustworthy  had  not  studied  Walk 
er's  orthoepy. 

<4  That's  jist  my  case  ;  but  fait  it's  a  bad  practice,  any  how. 
But  suppose  we  send  over  the  way  for  a  little  brandy  ;  or  as 
we  are  alone,  we  will  toss  up  which  shall  send  t'other." 

"  I  never  drink  any  thing  stronger  than  switchel.  I  swan'd 
it  with  a  bible  oath." 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  were  fond  of  the  dram  V 


Jl  scene  behind  the  curtain.  105 

"  Dram?  0,  the  dramma  !  that's  dramatic  literature — plays 
and  acting — poets  and  histrions." 

"  Sure  I'm  bother'd.  I  know  nothing  of  history,  only  the 
history  of  St.  Patrick,  and  Bryan  O'Neil." 

11  You  don't  read  much  then?" 

"  It's  not  the  fashion  wid  us.  The  priest  reads  for  us,  and 
that  saves  a  mighty  deal  of  trouble ;  but  I'm  still  bother'd" 
said  Dennis,  "  about  your  saying  you  loved  the  dram." 

"  The  dramma,  Dennis,  the  dramma, — the  art  dramatic  and 
histrionic ;  histrion  means  player  or  actor.  I  have  talent  for 
the  stage,  myself, — I  could  act,  but  somehow  or  another  I  don't 
like  to  have  such  folks  as  I  see  in  the  gallery,  or  the  pit  some 
times,  and  always  in  the  upper  boxes,  put  in  power  to  hiss  or 
clap  me,  -when  I  can't  get  at  them  to  give  them  my  hand  in  re 
turn,  if  I  think  them  saucy.  But  to  please  a  friend,*  I  can  en 
act  a  tragedy-part  to  the  life.  Did  you  ever  hear  me  take  off 
Mr.  Cooke  ?  Just  give  me  his  wig,  and  I'll  put  on  hie  coat, 
and  give  you  Penruddock  to  a  T.  I'll  show  you  that  I  could 
be  his  substitute." 

Dennis  assisted  the  actor.     "  By  the  powers,  but  the  wig  is 
the  thing,  after  all !" 

"  The  wig  fits  very  well,  but  the  coat  is  not  long  enough,  es 
pecially  in  the  sleeves.  Now  for  one  of  his  grand  croaks." 

While  the  yankee  traveller  was  exerting  himself,  to  the  great 
edification  of  Dennis,  braying  in  discordant  tones,  which  he 
thought  an  imitation  of  Cooke,  Spiffard  again  descended  from 
his  dressing-room,  to  inquire  for  the  veteran  tragedian,  and  met 
Cooper  ascending  from  the  green-room,  on  the  same  quest. 

"  Has  he  come  ?" 

"  I  think  I  hear  him  ; — yes,  he  is  rehearsing.  Let  us  go  in 
t;nd  see  what  state  the  old  man  is  in." 

"  Bad  enough,  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,"  said  the  manager. 

They  entered,  much  to  the  discomfiture  of  the  traveller  and 
his  hibernian  admirer.  Davenport  stood  towering,  six  feet  two 
inches,  at  his  utmost  height,  with  his  enormous  long  arms  out 
stretched,  his  bony  wrists,  as  well  as  fists,  thrust  several  inches 
beyond  the  cuffs  of  Penruddock's  coat,  which  was  ludicrously 
projecting,  its  square  skirts;  not  much  below  his  hips  the  wig 
but  partly  covering  his  stubborn  bristly  hair,  gave  as  grotesque 
an  appearance  to  his  sallow  face,  as  the  coat  imparted  to  his 
gigantic  figure.  The  expression  of  the  detected  hero's  counte 
nance,  between  surprise,  shame,  and  archness,  was  so  comi- 


106  A  scene,  behind  the  curtain. 

cally  equivocal,  that  it  produced  an  effect  on  SpifFard  more  al 
lied  to  mirth,  than  any  sensation  he  had  felt  for  some  days  past. 
The  Manager's  disappointment  at  not  finding  Cooke,  and  his 
chagrin  at  the  consequences  which  his  imagination  presented  as 
likely  to  occur  from  the  absence  of  the  veteran  at  this  critical 
moment,  caused  a  burst  of  angry  words  on  the  traveller,  whose 
change  from  the  heroic  action,  was  a  sheepish  attempt  to 
crouch  his  long  figure  behind  the  short,  square  form,  of  the 
Irishman. 

*'  What  are  you  about,  you  awkward  booby  ?" 

Trusty  made  no  answer,  but  Dennis  undertook  his  excuse, 

**  O,  Mister  Cooper,  sir,  don't  be  angry  with  Mister  Devil- 
sport,  he's  only  preparing  himself  to  be  Mister  Cooke's  prosti 
tute." 

The  ludicrous  now  prevailed.  With  another  exclamation^ 
which  was  more  than  half  smothered  by  a  laugh,  the  Manager 
abruptly  turned  from  the  place  to  go  in  search  of  the  incorri 
gible  truant.  We  need  not  say  that  the  travelling  yankee  soon 
doffed  his  borrowed  feathers.  Cooper  found  Cooke  at  Hodg- 
kinson's  public  house,  with  an  empty  decanter  before  him,  and 
was  received  with,  "  Ah,  Tom  ! — let's  have  another  bottle." 

With  great  difficulty,  the  intended  representative  of  Penrud- 
dock  was  removed  to  the  theatre,  and  prevailed  upon  to  suffer 
Dennis  and  Davenport  to  array  him  for  the  character  which  he 
was  utterly  incompetent  to  perform.  Cooper  determined  to 
let  him  begin  the  play,  as  the  time  of  commencement  was  al 
ready  past,  and  retired  to  his  room  to  dress  for  the  part,  and 
wait  the  determination  of  the  audience. 

The  play  had  been  long  delayed,  the  gallery  had  long  been 
uproarious,  and  the  pit  had  become  noisy.  All  the  time-out- 
of-mind  overtures  had  been  played,  and  apologies  offered,  until 
the  house  would  hear  no  more.  Cooke  was  conducted  to  the 
scene  of  action,  and  mounted,  by  the  aid  of  Trusty,  Dennis, 
and  Concklin,  the  head-carpenter,  upon  a  platform  behind  the 
"  cottage  scene,"  through  the  window  of  which  he  was  first  to 
speak  to  Weazle. 

"  Is  all  ready  behind  ?"  asked  Oliff,  the  unintelligible  promp 
ter. 

"  No,  sir  1"  shouted  Cooke.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  plac 
ing  me  here,  with  my  back  to  the  audience  V1 

**  The  audience  are  there,  sir,"  said  Concklin. 

"  There,  sir  !     Where,  sir  ?" 

"  There,  Mr.  Cooke,  in  front" 


A  scene  behind  the  curtain.  107 

"In  front,  you  yankee  scoundrel,  I  know  they  are  in  front, 
but  the  front  is  there,  sir,"  pointing  to  Theatre  Alley.  "  Do 
you  pretend  to  tell  me  where  the  front  is  !  Me  !  George  Fre 
derick  Cooke, — tell  me,  sir!  that  have  fronted  the  audience  of 
the  British  metropolis,  and  the  Majesty  of  Britain  ; — would  you 
tell  me  when  and  where  to] face  an  audience?  Change  the 
scone,  sir,  put  it  here !"  and  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  pros 
cenium. 

But,  Mr.  Cooke—" 

Don't  speak  to  me,  sir  !" 

Mr.  Cooke  is  right !"  said  Trustworthy  Davenport 

Ha !  are  you  there,  little  goodfellow?" 

Mr.  Cooke  is  right !"  repeated  Davenport. 

44  To  be  sure  I  am  !  Am  I  to  be  taught  my  0.  P.'s  and  P. 
S.'s  by  a  block  of  a  carpenter?" 

44  I'll  change  the  scene,  Mr.  Concklin,"  said  Trusty ; 
•4  please,  sir,  to  stand  still,  as  the  platform  is  unsteady — steady, 
sir."  And  suddenly  seizing  Cooke  in  his  long  arms,  he  lifted 
him  from  his  feet,  and  whirling  him  round  with  the  velocity  of 
a  teetotum,  replaced  him  on  the  platform  as  he  was  before;  at 
the  same  time  shaking  the  scene,  Trusty  cried,  "  There,  sir, 
now  all  is  changed,  the  audience  are  where  they  ought  to  be. 
Don't  you  hear  them,  sir?" 

44  To  be  sure  I  do.  Very  well,  my  good  fellow, — I  knew 
they  were  there.  Prompter !  all's  ready." 

The  curtain  rose.  The  first  scene  passed  off  without  any 
disclosure  of  the  grave  Penruddock's  most  unsteady  state,  as 
he  spoke  through  a  window,  and  was  supported  by  his  aids  on 
the  platform  ;  but  as  the  play  proceeded,  Penruddock  44  stuck." 
Mr.  Cooke's  old  complaint  was  pleaded,  and  the  manager 
being  ready,  was  joyfully  received  by  the  audience  as  the  sub 
stitute,  instead  of  Trustworthy  Davenport. 

In  the  course  of  this  evening's  entertainment  at  the  theatre, 
Spiffard,  on  going  to  the  door  of  the  dressing-room  occupied 
by  his  wife,  and  her  mother,  with  intent  to  speak  through  the 
key-hole  to  Mrs.  Spiffard,  (for  such  was  the  etiquette  of  the 
house,  and  is,  of  course,  the  custom  of  all  well-regulated  the 
atres,)  as  he  approached  the  door,  saw  the  female  dresser 
coming  up  stairs  bearing  something  of  most  suspicious  ap 
pearance.  The  woman  knocked  at  the  door,  and  before  she 
could  be  answered,  he  asked  "Who  is  that  for?"  4' Mrs. 
Spiffard,  sir." 

This  moment  was  decisive  of  his  future  peace.     The  first 


108  We  come  back  to  town. 

impulse  was  to  dash  the  hated  object  to  the  floor.  The  next 
moment  caused  hesitation;  and  reason  came  to  his  aid.  He 
turned,  sorrowing  from  the  door,  before  the  knock  of  the  dress 
er  could  be  answered,  and  supporting  himself  by  the  ballus- 
ters,  he  slowly  gained  his  room,  and  sunk  in  a  chair,  hopeless 
and  tortured  by  images,  to  him,  of  the  most  distressing  nature. 
We  will  not  attempt  to  depict  the  misery  of  this  ill-fated  young- 
man,  who  felt  himself  the  doomed  victim  of  that  vice  in  ano 
ther,  which  of  all  vices,  he  most  abhorred. 

He  had  previously  engaged  himself  for  the  next  day  to  a 
dining  party  at  Cato's,  and  had  agreed  to  be  the  companion  of 
Cooke  to  the  spot  appointed.  He  willingly  fulfilled  the  CD- 
gagement — it  took  him  from  home.  In  the  next  chapter  we 
\rill  accompany  them. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Jl  walk  out  of  town. 

'"  I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be  done,  than  to  be  one 
of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine  own  teaching." — Shakspeare. 

"  Twenty  more,  kill  them  too." — Ben.  Johnson, 
"These  lies  are  like  the  father  that  begets  them.' 
"  I'll  after  him,  and  see  ihe  event  of  this." 


"  Wit,  and't  be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good  fooling." 

"  I  knew  ye,  as  well  as  he  that  made  ye." 

"  Sack,  two  gallons,  5s.  8d. — Bread,  a  halfpenny." — Shakspeare. 

11  Bring  forth  the  amreeta  cup  !     * 
Thus  have  I  triumphed  over  death  and  fate  !      * 
And  to  his  lips  he  rais'd  the  fatal  bowl.     *     *     * 
The  dreadful  liquor  works  the  will  of  fate." — Southey. 

SPIFFARD  found  the  veteran  waiting  for  him,  in  full  spirits, 
and  seemingly  none  the  worse,  at  least  to  a  casual  observer, 
for  the  excesses  of  yesterday.  The  colour  of  his  cheeks  was 


A  walk  out  of  town. 

a  little  heightened,  but  his  skin,  otherwise  gave  no  indication  of 
intemperance.  There  was,  however,  a  something  in  the  ex 
pression  of  his  eye,  that  rivetted  Spiffard's  attention.  He  had 
noted  it  before,  and  it  brought  to  him  recollections  of  his 
childhood,  but  not  of  its  joys.  To-day,  there  was  a  bril 
liancy,  a  sparkling  lustre  in  the  dark  grey  iris,  (almost  convert 
ed  to  black  by  the  expansion  of  the  pupil,)  that  arrested  the  eye 
of  Spiffard,  and  although  it  brought  the  sharpest  pain  to  his 
breast,  by  the  mournful  images  recalled  of  what  he  had  seen 
at  home,  without  understanding  then  the  meaning  of  the  ap 
pearance;  yet,  even  this  pain  and  these  reminiscences,  attached 
him  the  more  to  his  aged  companion  by  a  species  of  fascina 
tion. 

Cooke  had  slept  a  death-like  sleep  after  the  excess  of  the 
preceding  day,  and  the  exertions  of  the  evening  at  the  theatre; 
and  although  he  awoke  with  feverish  symptoms,  they  were  only 
such  as  seemed,  to  him,  to  require  drink,  and  that  of  no  feeble- 
character.  He  had  taken  a  bottle  of  brown-stout  with  his 
breakfast,  or  rather  for  his  breakfast,  it  being  in  the  toper's 
creed  both  meat  and  drink,  and  bread  was  as  little  in  demand 
with  him  as  with  Falstaff. 

Remembering  his  engagement  to  dine  at  Cato's,  he  had 
been  in  good  time  dressed  for  the  occasion,  and  then  taking  a 
glass  of  stiff  brandy  and  water,  he  awaited  his  young  compan 
ion  with  all  the  gaiety  of  renewed  youth.  Thus  is  the  path  to 
ruin  strewed  with  seeming  flowers. 

It  may  be  observed,  of  the  unhappy  subjects  to  habitual 
ebriety,  that  they  have  intervals  free  from  delusion,  during 
which  rational  conduct  is  continued,  for  a  longer  or  shorter 
period,  according  to  the  circumstances  in  which  the  person  is 
placed.  When  the  desire  for  the  unnatural  excitement  occurs, 
and  is  yielded  to,  it  grows  by  what  it  feeds  on,  for  a  time,  and 
the  victim  of  depraved  appetite,  glorying  in  his  shame,  goes  on 
from  one  stage  of  disease  to  another,  each  one  rising  above  the 
preceding,  in  symptoms  of  madness ; — madness,  hailed  as 
health,  until  nature  fails,  and  the  degraded  being  sinks,  crying 
for  aid  to  the  physician  or  the  friend,  to  save  him  from  the 
yawning  grave  he  suddenly  sees  open  before  him ;  or  the  rack 
ing  pains  which  awakened  reason,  tells  him  are  the  fruits  of 
misconduct,  and  the  precursors  of  death.  Then  comes  that 
pitiful  repentance  which  knows  not  amendment,  and  that  forced 
abstinence,  in  which  is  no  merit.  Cooke  was  at  this  time  ap 
proaching  the  pitiable  state  above  described,  and  had  attained 
its  immediate  fore-runner,  that  stage  of  the  self-inflicted  dis- 

8* 


110  A  walk  out  of  town. 

case,  when  the  physical  powers  are  screwed  up  to  an  unnatural 
height,  and  the  victim,  notwithstanding  repeated  experience, 
seems  to  feel  assured  that  the  poisoned  cup  contains  the 
draught  that  secures  bliss  and  immortality — the  "  amreeta  cup" 
of  eternal  happiness. 

'*  Ha,  my  boy  !     Here  I  am  !  ready  and  waiting  for  you." 

**  Ha\7e  you  sent  for  a  coach,  sir?" 

'*  A  coach  !  No.  We  will  walk.  I  delight  in  walking. 
Many  a  time  have  I  left  my  lodgings,  and  rambled  down  to 
Wapping,  enjoying  the  scenes  of  that  lower  world,  and  then 
along  the  Thames  to  Greenwich,  and  back  again  on  that  side 
of  the  river." 

"  But  do  you  know,  sir,  that  it  is  four  or  five  miles  to  Cato's  ?" 

"  That's  nothing !  Ha !  Some  of  my  pleasantest  days  have 
been  passed  in  walking  from  morning  till  ni^tit  in  the  environs 
of  London,  when  1  could  escape  from  the  accursed  enchanted 
castle  of  Covent  Garden  and  its  keeper,  the  giant  'Black 
Jack.'  0,  how  I  have  enjoyed  myseli"  in  a  solitary  walk  up 
Oxford  street  to  Tyburn,  through  the  Parks,  or  to  Richmond 
Hill !  At  other  times,  it  has  been  my  whim  to  ramble  among 
the  sailors  and  watermen  down  the  river,  either  holding  myself 
aloof,  and  scanning  the  creatures  I  passed  or  mingling  with  the 
motley  herd,  and  enjoying  my  obscurity.  We  great  men,"  he 
added,  "  relish  an  incognito." 

Thus  commenced  the  walk  to  Cato's.  The  reader  will 
hold  in  mind,  that  at  the  time  of  which  we  write,  this  great  city 
of  New  York  had  no  claim  to  that  title  from  its  size.  None  of 
those  magnificent  streets,  called  avenues,  existed.  And  ex 
cepting  the  great  commercial  highways  of  river  and  ocean, 
there  were  but  two  outlets  from  the  town.  One  of  these, 
and  the  most  frequented,  our  pedestrians  followed,  passing  up 
Broadway,  then  turning  into  the  Bowery,  and  taking  the  old 
Boston  road  where  it  diverges  to  the  right  at  what  was  then  the 
United  States  arsenal,  now  the  House  of  Refuge,  a  blessed  in 
stitution!  where  a  system  of  education  and  reform,  for  children 
of  both  sexes,  is  in.  successful  operation,  by  which  hundreds  are 
restored  to  society  as  useful  members,  who  had  been  abandoned 
by  ill  fortune  or  bad  parents,  to  vice  and  begrary.  A  more 
touching  exhibition  than  three  hundred  pretty  and  well-dressed 
children  rescued  from  destruction,  and  joining  in  hymns  of 
thankfulness  to  their  Creator,  seldom  falls  to  the  lot  of  any 
one  to  see. 

Without  a  cessation  of  interesting  conversation  or  lively 
chat,  kept  up  by  artificial  excitement  on  one  part,  arid  on  the 


A  walk  out  of  town.  Ill 

other  by  the  animation  which  exercise  in  the  open  air  imparts 
to  youth  and  health,  they  were  passing  Kip's  Bay,  when  Spif- 
fard  called  the  attention  of  his  companion  to  the  scenery  on 
their  right, — to  Long  Island  and  the  waters  dividing  it  from 
Manhattan, — alluding  to  the  history  connected  with  the  spot. 

"  Kip's  Bay,"  said  the  veteran.  "  Ah !  here  we  landed  after 
crossing  from  yonder  shore.  Ha !  how  the  Yankee-doodles 
scampered  when  they  saw  our  boats  approach.  They  remem 
bered  the  day  before,  when  they  attempted  to  make  a  stand 
upon  the  heights  of  Brooklyn.  If  Sir  William  Howe  had  fol 
lowed  up,  as  he  ought,  where  would  have  been  your  republic 
now?  //  I  myself,  was  in  full  pursuit  of  Washington  when  a 
retreat  was  sounded.  I  should  have  hadhirn,  and  then  the  war 
would  have  been  at  an  end !  I  should  have  been  gazetted, 
*  Lieutenant  Cooke,  of  the  55th,  has  put  an  end  to  the  Ameri 
can  rebellion,  by  seizing  with  his  own  hand,  that  arch  rebel, 
George  Washington.'  George — named  by  his  loyal  father,  af 
ter  the  royal  house  of  Hanover.  All  the  Jacobites  of  England 
called  their  sons  Charles,  and  Charles  Edward  :  the  adherents 
to  the  Hanoverian  dynasty,  named  theirs  George,  and  George 
Frederick.  My  father,  a  captain  of  dragoons  in  the  service  of 
his  sacred  majesty,  George  the  Second,  bestowed  on  me, 
unworthy,  the  glorious  appellation  of  George  Frederick  ;  and 
I  have  served  my  royal  master,  George  the  Third,  faithfully. 
Accursed  be  General  Sir  William  Howe,  that  I  did  not  send 
the  traitor  Washington  to  London,  to  be  dealt  with  according 
to  his  deserts,  and  the  v\ill  of  my  gracious  sovereign." 

Thus  did  the  excited  romancer  pour  forth  a  stream  of  words 
at  the  suggestion  of  his  heated  imagination. 

The  reader  who  is  acquainted  with  the  ground  in  the  vicinity 
of  New- York,  and  the  shores  of  that  water  which  divides  the 
lesser  island  and  its  city,  from  the  greater  and  more  fertile, 
stretching  south  to  the  ocean,  and  north  to  the  land  of  steady 
habits,  will  perhaps  recollect  that  at  the  period  of  which  we 
speak,  most  of  the  houses  standing  between  the  old  road  and 
the  east  river  were  not  in  existence.  Still,  as  the  road  runs 
through  a  hollow,  the  water  was  scarcely  discernible  from  it. 
"  Let  us  leave  the  road,  and  ascend  those  higher  grounds," 
said  Cooke.  SphTard  willingly  assented,  as  he  wished  the 
internal  exciting  causes,  which  existed  with  his  companion,  di 
minished  by  time  and  exercise,  before  they  should  join  the  com 
pany  with  whom  they  had  engaged  to  dine. 

They  accordingly  turned  from  the  road  toward  the  river ; 
passing  into  a  meadow  through  a  gap  in  the  fence.  After 


112  Jl  walk  out  of  town. 

crossing  several  enclosures,  as  they  approached  the  water,  they 
gained  an  eminence  crowned  by  a  flat  rock.  From  this  point 
they  looked  down  upon  the  bay  or  cove,  which  takes  its  name 
from  the  former  owner  of  the  land  surrounding  it — "Kip's 
Bay." 

A  more  lovely  landscape  of  the  half  marine  kind  is  seldom 
seen,  than  that  our  pedestrians  might  now  enjoy.  On  their  left, 
the  eye  passing  over  a  portion  of  a  pleasure-ground,  (whose 
foliage  glittered  in]  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow,)  fell  on  the 
calm  water  of  the  river,  scarcely  moved  but  by  the  eddies  of  a 
tide-propelled  current,  and  divided  in  the  midst,  between  the 
two  larger  islands,  by  the  point  of  the  islet  called  BlackwelPs, 
and  the  rocks  in  which  it  terminates  ;  black  dots  on  the  surface 
of  the  stream,  marking  the  division  of  the  main  channel  to  the 
pilots,  whose  white  sails  were  seen  on  either  side.  To  the  right 
might  be  seen  a  portion  of  the  city,  (not  as  now  encroaching  on 
the  great  bay;  not  as  now  stretching  eastward  beyond  the 
Navy  Yard,  with  its  towering  masts  and  close-housed  line  of 
battle-ships,)  and -the  opposite  fast  growing  town  (now  city)  of 
Brooklyn.  Immediately  opposite  to  the  wayfarers,  two  reaches 
or  bends  of  a  small  serpentine  river  were  visible,  dividing  the 
meadows  and  groves  of  Long  Island,  and  flowing  to  the  sea- 
water  of  the  bay.  The  swelling  hills  with  their  gardens, 
orchards,  and  cultivated  fields,  terminated  the  view. 

"Aha!"  cried  Cooke,  when  he  had  mounted  the  rock; 
**  Aha !"  I  see  the  whole  of  it  now.  Yes,  sirr,  down  there  to  the 
right,  beyond  the  rocky  and  precipitous  shore,  is  the  bottom  of 
the  bay  where  we  landed.  The  wharf  which  you  see  was  not 
there  then.  But  that  rock,  further  south,  afforded  us  a  fine 
shelter,  if  we  had  wanted  shelter ;  but  your  Yankees  did  not 
even  wait  until  we  were  with  within  gun-shot  distance  :  and  see 
that  causey — that,  too,  is  recent ;  we  had  to  charge  through 
that  marsh,  knee-deep  in  mud  and  water." 

Thus,  combining  images  which  were  before  his  eyes,  with 
historical  recollections  from  his  reading,  and  the  creations  of 
his  excited  imagination,  the  old  man  indulged  his  romancing 
vein,  to  the  astonishment  of  his  almost  bewildered  companion  ; 
who,  finding  that  he  paused,  remarked,  "  It  has  always  been 
granted  that  General  Washington  displayed  great  skill  in  bring 
ing  off  his  undisciplined,  discouraged,  and  defeated  troops  from 
the  opposite  shore,  and  with  so  little  loss  landing  them  on  this 
island  in  the  presence  of  a  superior  enemy — an  enemy  boasting 
the  proud  title  of  the  mistress  of  the  sea." 

*"  Yes,  sirr  !  he  showed  as  great  alacrity  in  running  as  Fat 


Jl  walk  out  of  town.  113 

Jack  did  in  sinking.  Sir,  I  shot  his  horse,  and  was  advancing 
to  seize  him,  but  to  my  surprise  he  sprung  on  his  feet,  and  with 
his  long  legs  he  soon  distanced  me.  Long  legs  are  the  dis 
tinguishing  marks  of  a  Yankee." 

"  And  long  arms,"  added  a  voice  close  to  the  ear  of  the 
actor.  They  turned,  and  saw  a  man  of  towering  stature,  who 
had  come  from  a  field  (by  the  side  of,  and  below  the  rock  on 
which  they  stood,)  where  he  had  been  digging  potatoes.  He 
had  approached  unnoticed,  with  a  well-filled  basket  hanging  on 
his  arm,  and  his  spade  musket- wise  on  his  right  shoulder.  It  is 
probable  this  personage  would  have  passed  on  below  the  stand 
our  pedestrians  had  taken  ;  but  attracted  by  Cooke's  loud 
harsh  voice,  and  without  being  kept  aloof  by  any  repelling  sense 
of  decency,  (or  perhaps  thinking  that  what  was  uttered  aloud 
in  so  public  a  place,  belonged  to,  or  was  intended  for  the  pub 
lic,}  he  heard  the  words  without  stopping  to  listen,  and  felt  dis 
posed  to  retort  when  the  disparaging  description  of  the  distin 
guishing  marks  of  a  Yankee  struck  his  ear. 

This  interloper  was  as  much  above  the  Englishman's  height 
as  SpirTard  was  below  it,  and  stood  at  least  six  feet  two  inches, 
as  erect  as  a  hemlock  tree.  His  age  was  about  fifty-five  ;  his 
iron-grey  locks  peeped  from  under  a  slouched  hat  that  had  once 
been  white.  He  wore  no  coat.  His  cloth  waistcoat  was  open 
in  front,  and  showed  a  clean  coarse  white  homespun  shirt, 
which,  tucked  up  at  the  sleeves,  and  open  at  the  collar,  display 
ed  arms  and  neck  that  might  vie  with  a  Grecian  Hercules  or  an 
Irish  hod-carrier.  His  lower  extremities  were  furnished  forth 
with  woollen  pantaloons  and  clumsy  shoes,  tied  with  strings  of 
black  worsted.  His  whole  appearance  was  that  of  an  indepen 
dent  American  yeoman. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  our  countrymen  are  a  taller  race 
than  the  European  family  from  which  they  sprung.  They  have 
a  national  physiognomy,  more  resembling  the  English  than  any 
other  people,  yet  marked  by  a  distinct  character.  This  man's 
face  was  long  ;  the  muscles  full  and  strongly  marked.  His  eyes 
were  small,  and  expressive  of  humour :  his  nose  broad  and 
straight ;  his  mouth  large  ;  his  lips  thick  ;  teeth  irregular,  and 
chin  full.  His  complexion  was  a  brown  yellow,  which  only 
glowed  faintly  with  red  when  he  laughed,  and  that  was  not  un- 
frequent. 

Cooke  eyed  this  giant  from  top  to  toe,  and  then  said — "But 
at  the  battle  of  Brooklyn,  if  battle  it  may  be  called,  they  made 
better  use  of  their  legs  than  their  arms." 


114  A  walk  out  of  toum. 

"  We  had  to  learn  how  to  use  our  arms  then  ;  our  legs  had 
been  taught  their  exercise  before." 

"  Were  you  among  the  rabble-rout  who  fled  at  the  sight  of 
the  Union  flag  of  Britain,  and  scarlet  livery  of  your  king !" 

Spiffard,  who  although  amused  by  the  rhapsodies  of  his  com 
panion,  was  pained  by  the  consciousness  of  the  cause,  and  had 
constrainedly  kept  up  his  part  in  the  colloquy,  was  glad  to  find 
that  he  might  now  become  merely  a  listener  to  a  dialogue  be 
tween  two  characters  so  opposite  as  the  loyal  representative  of 
Richard  and  lago,  on  one  part,  and  a  rough  republican  tiller  of 
Indian  corn  and  buckwheat,  on  the  other. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  the  yeoman,  "  we  found  that  the 
red  coats  were  getting  between  us  and  the  town,  and  that  our 
Lord  Sterling  as  they  called  him, — what  had  we  to  do  with 
Lords  ? — knew  no  more  of  manceuvermg  than  we  did  ;  so  we 
thought  we  had  better  save  ourselves  for  another  opportunity, 
and  learn  to  handle  our  tools  before  we  commenced  the  busi 
ness  of  righting." 

"  '  The  better  part  of  valour  is  discretion.'  You  were  right 
to  run  when  you  were  over  there,  at  Brooklyn,  but  here  at 
Kip's  Bay,  you  had  nothing  to  do  but  stand  fast  and  shoot  cur 
men  as  they  approached,  cooped  up  in  their  boats,  and  exposed 
where  every  shot  must  have  told.  What  did  you  run  for,  then  ? 
There  was  no  maneuvering  here.  Your  hero,  your  Washing 
ton,  got  you  out  of  the  scrape  the  night  before,  and  very  cle 
verly,  to  give  the  devil  his  due, — though,  if  Sir  William  Howe 
had  done  his  duty,  you  would  all  have  been  prisoners,  and  sent 
home  to  be  hanged  as  rebels  ;  but  your  commander  saved  you 
during  the  night,  while  Howe  kept  aloof,  why,  no  one  knows." 

"  Perhaps  discretion  kept  him  at  a  distance  ; — that  '  better 
part  of  valour'  you  talked  of." 

"  What  should  have  taught  him  that  discretion,  with  regular 
troops  at  his  back,  and  raw  yankees  in  front  2" 

"  Mayhap  he  remembered  that  he  and  them  same  rig'lars  had 
been  at  Bunker's  Hill  a  short  time  before." 

"  Why,  there  is  something  in  that,"  whispered  Cooke,  look 
ing  over  his  shoulder  at  Spiffard,  who  enjoyed  the  farmer's  re 
tort.  "  But,"  he  continued,  raising  his  voice,  "  we  showed  no 
discretion  when  we  crossed  here  in  open  boats,  huddled  toge 
ther,  so  that  you  might  have  shot  us  like  black  birds,  or  pi 
geons,  or  any  other  defenceless  animals,  who  congregate  in 
crowds,  and  sit  still  to  be  murdered  ;  but  you  trusted  to  your 
legs  again,  and  again  Washington  (and  running)  saved  you." 


J&.  walk  out  ofimcn*  115 

"  My  friend,  you  seem  to  know  a  considerable  of  that  time  ; 
where  might  you  have  been?' 

"  Lieutenant  Cooke,  of  the  fifty-fifth  was  in  the  foremost 
boat,  and  the  first  to  land.  I  am  the  man  !" 

" 1  never  heard  of  you  before ;  but  you  are  not  the  only 
hero  who  has  been  obliged  to  sound  his  own  trumpet ;  and  I 
don't  like  you  the  less  for  having  been  one  of  the  rigglars  of 
that  day,  especially  as  it's  all  over  a  long  time,  and  as  I  know 
that  though  you  landed  in  the  summer  of  seventy-six,  those 
that  were  left  of  you,  embarked  from  the  same  little  island  in 
the  fall  of  eighty-three.  So,  if  you,  and  this  little  quiet  gen 
tleman,  will  jist  turn  in  here,"  and  he  threw  open  the  gate  of  a 
fence  a  little  below  the  height  on  which  they  had  been  parley 
ing,  "  and  go  to  my  house,  we'll  fight  over  all  our  battles 
again,  while  w7e  wash  down  enmity  with  either  cider  or  whiskey, 
or  brandy,  as  you  like  best, — I  don't  keep  wine,  only  currant, 
home-made." 

"  That  I  will,  with  all  my  heart !"  said  the  tragedian,  and 
down  from  the  rock  he  hastened,  by  the  side  of  the  hospitable 
farmer.  Spiffard  followed,  mournfully,  for  he  foresaw  in  the 
invitation,  an  increase  of  mischief. 

They  entered  a  neat  two-story  wooden  house,  which  fronted 
the  water,  and  had  the  hill  as  a  shelter  from  the  northern  blasts. 
All  was  comfortable  within.  The  good  woman  sat  knitting 
yarn  stockings  for  her  long-legged  husband ;  and  two  pretty 
girls,  her  daughters,  were  busied  in  preparing  habiliments  of 
finer  material,  and  more  urbanity,  for  themselves.  The  matron 
was  portly,  and  the  household  duties  of  the  morning  having 
been  performed,  she  was  dressed,  as  if  she  expected  company, 
in  the  seemly  sort  befitting  her  age  and  station.  Her  round, 
good-natured  face  was  bordered  by  a  neat  cap,  which  was  tied 
under  her  chin.  Her  gown  of  calico,  and  apron  of  white  linen, 
pure  as  snow,  new  fallen,  corresponded  with  the  well-starched 
kerchief  that  rose  from  the  shoulder  to  the  cheek.  She  looked 
like  the  fitting  wife  of  the  substantial  yeoman.  The  girls  had 
more  pretension  in  dress  and  appearance,  as  might  be  expected 
from  their  youth  and  the  encroachments  of  the  city.  In  fact, 
they  emulated  the  style  of  young  ladies,  arid  would,  if  they 
dared,  have  protested  against  the  rough  guise,  the  basket, 
spade,  and  naked  arms  of  their  father,  who  shouted  on  enter 
ing,  "  Mother!  I  have  brought  these  gentlemen  in,  to  take  a 
drink  after  a  long  walk." 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  them.     Chairs,  girls !     From  town,  gen 
tlemen  1" 


116  Jl  walk  out  of  town. 

"  Yes,  madam." 

«' Come,  stir  your  stumps,  girls!"  said  the  father.  "Some 
cool  water  from  the  well ;  put  down  your  trinkum  trankums, 
and  take  the  pitcher,  bring  tumblers,  and  mother,  turn  out  the 
cider,  the  brandy,  the  whiskey,  and  your  oldest  currant  wine." 

All  was  soon  before  them.  Cooke  took  his  grog,  nothing 
loth,  and  Spiffard  a  glass  of  water.  The  farmer  was  pouring 
out  for  himself,  and  without  taking  his  eye  from  the  glass, 
"  Wife,"  said  he,  "  what  do  you  think  ?  This  old  gentleman 
says  he  made  me  run  in  the  year  seventy-six,  when  I  was  sod- 
gering  over  there  at  Brooklyn." 

"  Like  enough,"  said  the  dame,  laughing,  "  I  never  believed 
half  the  stories  you  have  told  me  of  your  fights  with  the  red 
coats." 

"  Thank  you  for  that,  mistress." 

*'  Was  this  gentleman  among  the  British  then?" 

"  Yes.  He  was  a  gay  young  officer  when  I  carried  a  mus 
ket  in  Sterling's  brigade.  He  says  we  run  like  heroes." 

"  Ay,  that  ye  did,"  shouted  Cooke,  who  had  already  swal 
lowed  a  second  glass  of  the  stiffest  brandy  and  water,  "  that 
ye  did,  and  your  General  with  you,  your  Washington,  I  was 
close  upon  him,  I  had  nearly  caught  him — " 

"But  you  didn't." 

"  No,  he  was  too  quick  at  retreat." 

"  You  should  have  sprinkled  some  salt  on  him — fresh  salt, 
the  boys  say.  When  you  would  catch  an  old  bird,  sprinkle  some 
fresh  salt  on  his  tail.  My  sarvice  to  you." 

Cooke  looked  astounded.  He  drew  himself  up  with  all  the 
assumption  of  offended  dignity,  while  he  shot  from  his  over 
hanging  eyelids  glances  that  were  intended  to  awe  the  rustic. 
'"  Sir  !"  he  began,  but  the  ludicrous  image  suggested  by  his 
blunt  host,  with  the  consciousness  that  he  was  playing  the 
braggart,  overcame  his  acting  and  the  desire  to  continue  it ;  he 
suddenly  changed  from  the  heroic  scowl  to  a  look  of  arch  good 
humour,  and  stretching  his  hand  out  to  the  yeoman,  "  You 
have  beat  me,"  he  said,  "  give  me  your  hand.  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  fight  the  battle  of  Brooklyn  again.  That  salt  has 
preserved  Washington." 

The  yankee  shook  the  outstretched  hand  with  a  hearty 
laugh,  and  a  grasp  that  made  lieutenant  Cooke  flinch  from  the 
encounter.  "  Wife,"  said  the  farmer,  "  you  can  give  these 
friends  a  dinner  of  bacon,  eggs,  and  potatoes,  can't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  chickens  and  greens,  and  a  good  apple  dumpling* 
with  a  hearty  welcome." 


The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  horse-shed.       117 

"  I  wish,"  said  Cooke,  "  we  were  not  engaged.  This  is 
new.  This  is  fresh.  This  would  not  be  believed  t'other  side 
the  water."  Then  in  full  apparent  possession  of  his  gentle 
manly  manner,  which  was  eminently  prepossessing,  he  seemed 
by  an  effort  to  regain  the  entire  command  of  his  rational  facul 
ties,  explained  the  object  of  their  walk,  and  took  leave  with 
thanks  for  American  hospitality,  adding,  "  Your  fresh-salt 
shall  preserve  the  memory  of  the  master,  the  mistress,  and  the 
beauties  of  Kip's  Bay  as  long  as  George  Frederick  Cooke 
lives  to  tell  a  story  of  '  yankee  land.'  " 

He  bowed,  and  followed  by  the  laughing  girls,  and  smiling 
matron  to  the  door,  the  Thespians  departed.  The  farmer  ac 
companied  his  guests  until  he  saw  them,  by  a  shorter  route, 
gain  the  high  road  to  Cato's;  and  then  returned  home,  saying  as 
he  left  them,  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  fight  the  battle  of  Kip's  Bay 
over  again  with  you  any  day  you  have  a  mind  for  it." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  horse-shed. 

"The  beasts  of  the  field  know  when  lo  return  home  from  their  pasture, 
but  the  appetite  of  man  is  insatiable." — Eddie  poem. 

"But  that  the  poor  monster's  in  drink,  an  abominable  monster." 
"  This  can  sack  and  drinking  do." 

"I  told  you,  sir,  they  were  red  hot  with  drinking; 
So  full  of  valour  that  they  smote  the  air 
For  breathing  in  their  faces." 

"  This  drinking  and  quaffing  will  be  the  ruin  of  you." 

"He  will  lie,  sir,  with  such  volubility  that  you  would  think  truth  were  a 
fool :  drunkenness  is  his  best  virtue." — Shakspeare. 

"  Hell  always  weaves  its  strongest  web,  not  out  of  the  conflict  of  pas 
sions  themselves,  but  out  of  the  powerless  exhaustion  which  follows  upon 
it."-£n/r. 

WHO  has  not  heard  of  Cato  Alexander's  ?  Not  to  know 
"Cato's,"  is  not  to  know  the  world.  At  least  so  it  was 
thought  twenty-five  or  thirty  years  ago.  But  as  all  our  readers 
are  not  supposed  to  be  acquainted  with  the  world,  we  must 


118       The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  horse-shed. 

point  out  the  situation,  and  describe  the  localities  of—  Cato's — 
that  our  tale  may  be  duly  understood,  and  its  incidents  appre 
ciated. 

Between  four  and  five  mites  north-east  from  the  building 
called  in  New- York  the  City  Hall,  in  front  of  which  we'first  met 
our  readers,  and  introduced  them  to  our  hero,  and  other  person 
ages  of  note,  yet  to  be  made  more  intimately  known — between 
four  and  five  miles  from  this  building,  on  the  west  side  of  the 
old  Boston-road,  .stands  this  celebrated  tavern,  owned  and  kept 
by  Cato  Alexander,  and  called,  from  the  landlord,  "  Cato's." 

Cato,  the  keeper  of  a  road  tavern  !  Alexander  the  bearer 
of  gin-toddy  to  a  whiskered  shop-boy  on  a  Sunday  !  Cato — 
Alexander — what  awful  names !  How  full  of  associations ! 
each  singly  denoting  the  conqueror  of  self,  or  the  conqueror  of 
the  world ;  now  united  to  designate  a  servant  of  vicious  and 
pampered  appetites ! 

Do  not  let  us  be  mistaken.  Cato  of  Cato's  was  no  worse  a 
man  than  the  tens  of  thousands  with  whiter  faces,  who  admin 
ister  to  the  pride,  passions,  and  vices  of  the  multitude.  He 
was  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  keeper  of  an  eating  and 
drinking  house  ;  one  whose  lawful  trade  is  to  tempt  to.  excess* 
and  who  may  legally  live  by  administering  poison. 

It  would  puzzle  any  but  a  philosopher  to  find  a  reason  for 
that  preference  "  Cato's"  has  enjoyed  for  many  years  over  all 
the  many  receptacles  of  idleness  and  intemperance  which 
stand  invitingly  open  on  the  roads  and  avenues  leading  to  and 
from  our  moral  and  religious  city.  We,  being  a  philosopher, 
have  found  it,  and  can  communicate.  It  is  preferred  to  other 
houses  of  refuge  from  temperance,  that  are  known  under  the 
appellation  of  retreats,  (such  as  '*  Citizen's  Retreat,"  *'  Fire 
man's  Retreat,"  ««  Mechanic's  Retreat,"  "  Old  Countryman's 
Retreat,"  and  a  hundred  other  retreats  from  public  notice, 
or  domestic  duties,)  not  because  its  situation  has  more  of  rural 
retirement — for  it  stands  full  in  view  of  the  traveller  or  way 
farer.  It  is  not  a  retreat  from  noise,  for  that  resounds  within  ; 
nor  from  dust,  for  that  it  invites  and  receives  from  every  wheel 
and  hoof  that  passes.  It  is  not  preferred  because  it  enjoys  or 
gives  its  visiters  better  or  more  extensive  prospects  than  its  ri 
vals,  for  it  commands  no  view  but  of  the  dirty  high-road,  a  cab 
bage-garden,  a  horse-shed,  and  a  sign-post  ^  nor  is  it  chosen 
for  that,  the  breezes  of  either  land  or  sea  bear  health  or  re 
freshment  to  its  admirers ;  for  the  land  rises  on  every  side, 
barring  every  wind  that  blows  from  visiting  it  too  roughly. 
Neither  is  it  the  spacious  apartments  or  elegant  furniture  that 
gives  it  preference,  for  its  inmates  are  cabined  cribbed,  and  con- 


The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  horse-shed.       1 19 

fined  in  cells  like  acorn-cups,  compared  with  the  halls  and  sa 
loons  of  the  town  hotels  and  gambling-houses.  But,  Mrs. 
Cato  is  a  notable  cook.  The  "  cabin  is  convenient."  There 
are  none  but  black  faces  belonging  to  the  establishment.  We 
feel  that  we  are  "  right  worshipful."  All  around  is  subser 
viency.  Desdemona  saw  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind  ;  it  is 
to  some,  pleasing  to  see  the  badge  of  subserviency  in  the  visage. 

To  this  convenient  court  of  conviviality  our  pedestrians  ap 
proached,  somewhat  fatigued,  but  more  heated,  by  the  long 
walk  under  a  clear  October  sun.  The  breezes  from  the  mag 
nificent  sheet  of  water  which  ebbs  and  flows  between  the 
islands  of  the  city,  and  the  harbour,  would  have  been  welcome 
to  the  glowing  faces  of  the  veteran,  and  his  young  companion  ; 
but  they  never  visited  "  Cato's."  Iced  punch  was  seized,  to 
supply  the  deficiency  by  one,  water  from  the  pump  refreshed 
the  other. 

"  Why,  Spiffard,  what  put  it  into  your  head  to  make  Mr. 
Cooke  walk  this  infernal  distance  V1  Such  was  the  salutation 
from  a  fat  and  heavy  figure  who  had  approached  to  meet  them. 

*'  He  chose  to  walk,  and  I  chose  to  please  him.  By-the- 
by,  I  thought  he  would  be  the  better  for  it.  It  has  dissipated 
some  alcohol."  This  Spiffard  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  while 
Cooke  took  another  draught  from  the  hands  of  Cato. 

"  Master  Cato !  neither  Rome  nor  Utica  ever  could  boast 
such  a  bowl  of  iced  punch  as  this !  You  are  the  Cato  of 
Cato's !  «  Blush  not,  thou  flower  of  modesty.'  What  do  you 
laugh  at  ?  A  flower  may  be  dingy.  Who  calls  you  black  ? 
See  how  the  red  blood  mantles  in  his  cheeks !  The  orange- 
tawny  and  the  crimson  streaks,  shine  through  the  glossy  ebony 
like  northern  lights  through  the  darkness  of  a  polar-sky,  cheer 
ing  a  six  months  night.  Cato  of  Utica  !  thou  pride  of  Africa ! 
Give  me  the  bowl  again.  4  I'm  a  horse,  if  I  have  wet  my  lips 
these  three  hours.'  " 

44  *  These  lies  are  like  the  father  that  begot  them.'  " 

"  Ah  !  Tom  ! — hah,  are  you  there.  Take  away  the  temp 
tation,  Satan.  Well,  lads  !  what's  the  sport  V 

*'  Sport  ?     We  waited  for  you." 

"  True,  there  is  no  sport  till  I  come  ;  as  the  thief  said  on  his 
way  to  Tyburn." 

44  We  have  waited  dinner  for  you.  What  put  it  into  your 
heads  to  walk  ?" 

"  Lusty  youth,  vigorous  limbs,  active  minds,  hot  blood,  ha  t 
Was  it  not  so,  comrade  ?" 

"More  of  the  last  than  the  first,"  said  Spiffard. 


120       The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  horse-shed. 

*'  Envy,  by  the  gods  !  thou  water  drinker ! — if  I  could  find 
epithet  of  more  contempt,  I  would  bestow  it  on  thee, — in  thy 
abject  taste,  thou  likest  thyself  to  the  beasts  of  the  field." 

"  Who  are  guided  by  unerring  instinct  to  avoid  poison." 
said  Spiffard.  "  Water  drinker !  it  is  my  title  of  honour." 

"  So  be  it  then.      Spiffard,  the  water-drinker !" 

*'  Dinner,  gentlemen !" 

"  Hold  to  the  practice,"  said  Cooke  to  Spiffard,  as  he  took 
his  arm  and  walked  to  the  dining-room.  "  Hold  fast  the  prac 
tice,  my  young  friend,  and  deserve  the  title.  Long  may  you 
keep  it,  and  you  may  laugh  when  you  see  us  make  wry  faces 
as  we  hobble  and  limp  with  gouty  limbs,  or  pant  for  lack  of 
breath,  our  livers  like  sieves  or  gridirons,  and  our  noses  like 
hot  pokers.  Sieves  and  gridirons,  hot  coals  and  pokers, — -I 
am  a  Cook,  you  know,  and  here's  dinner  I" 

Leave  we  the  company  of  thought-drowners,  and  meet  them 
again  by-and-by.  Some  hours  had  passed.  Spiffard  had 
tired  of  the  noise  of  the  table,  wearied  with  flashes  of  merri 
ment  not  inspired  by  wit,  but  by  wine ;  not  the  genuine  and 
healthy  progeny  of  the  reasoning  faculty  wiien  indulging  in 
sportive  recreation,  but  the  mere  empty  ebullition  of  excited 
animal  spirits,  without  the  guidance  or  control  of  reason.  He 
had  walked  up  and  down  the  road  in  search  of  a  pleasant 
place  for  retirement,  but  finding  none,  seated  himself  upon  a 
bench  under  a  building  erected  for  the  reception  of  water- 
drinkers, — it  was  the  horse-shed  in  front  of  the  house.  The 
tavern  has  a  piazza,  but  the  noise  of  the  revellers  made  it  al 
most  as  disagreeable  as  the  smoke-incumbered  dining-room. 
The  tumult  increased  so  as  to  reach  the  place  of  refuge  he  had 
chosen.  Discordant  sounds  commingled  in  confusion,  the 
monotomy  of  which  was  broken  by  the  high,  harsh,  screech 
ing  and  croaking  of  Cooke's  notes  of  inebriation. 

"  I'm  your  man,  sir ! — a  dead  shot,  birr !  George  Frederick 
is  the  name  to  cow  a  yankee  !" 

The  whole  party  now  issued  to  the  piazza,  and  after  a  pre 
liminary  discussion  of  the  mode  in  which  wounded  honour  was 
to  be  cured  by  the  duello,  (a  discussion  of  which  Spiffard  only 
heard  pieces  or  snatches  of  sentences,  as  "  ten  paces — five 
paces, — yankee  actor, — dead  shot,"  they  descended,  and  took 
a  station  between  the  tavern  and  the  horse-shed. 

It  now  appeared  that  Cooke  and  Cooper  were  to  be  pitied, 
not  as  actors,  but  as  duellists.  The  seconds  were  busy  load 
ing  the  pistols,  (an  implement  of  death  or  amusement  always 
kept  in  readiness  at  Cato's.)  Cooke  became  silent  and  digni- 


The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  horse-shed.       121 

fled,  only  showing  by  increased  energy  in  his  step,  (not  always 
properly  applied,)  and  increased  colour  in  his  face,  the  increase 
of  his  ebriety.  His  antagonist  was  all  politeness — the  estab 
lished  etiquette  with  those  who  meet  to  murder.  The  seconds 
and  witnesses  displayed  to  the  eye  of  the  water-drinker,  or  any 
other  rational  animal,  that  they  were  all  so  far  blinded  them 
selves,  that  they  could  not  see  how  plainly  they  were  exposing 
their  supposedly  deep-hidden  hoax,  to  any  clear-sighted  spec 
tator. 

The  word  was  given.  The  two  tragedians  fired  at  th<3 
same  moment,  or  nearly  so.  Cooke's  second  took  advantage 
of  the  smoke  and  noise  to  thrust  a  stick  through  his  principal's 
coat,  to  produce  a  bullet-hole,  at  the  same  time  he  threw  his 
left  arm  around  him,  as  if  for  support,  crying,  "  He  has  hit  you, 
sir." 

But  Cooke  was  in  one  of  those  half-mad,  half-cunning  parox 
ysms,  which  enabled  him  to  act  as  the  subject  of  the  hoax, 
while  he  in  reality  hoaxed  the  hoaxers  ;  and  enjoyed  all  the 
pleasure  of  acting  the  part  of  the  dupe,  with  the  assurance  of 
duping  those  who  thought  they  were  playing  upon  him.  He 
was  assuming  the  madman,  and  sufficiently  mad  to  enjoy  all 
the  pleasure  which  4i  only  madmen  know."  Pretending  to  be 
lieve  that  he  was  hit  by  his  opponent's  ball,  he,  with  a  force 
which  only  madness  could  give,  threw  out  his  left  arm,  and 
hurled  his  officiously  designing  second  several  paces  from  him, 
reeling  until  the  cow-yard  (the  court-yard  of  the  establishment) 
received  him  at  full  length.  As  the  smoke  evaporated,  Cooper 
was  seen  extended  in  mock  agonies  ;  his  second  and  others  of 
the  party,  leaning  over  him  in  pretended  mourning. 

"  Mr.  Cooke,  your  ball  has  passed  through  the  lungs  of  poor 
Cooper,  I'm  afraid.  The  surgeon  is  examining  the  wound. 
There  is  little  hope — " 

"  None,  sirr !  I  never  miss.  He  is  the  tenth.  I  am  sorry 
for  him."  He  stalked  up  to  the  pretended  hurt  man  with  due 
gravity.  This  was  a  precious  opportunity,  for  the  veteran  to 
mingle  sarcasm  and  rnock  regrets,  and  to  pay  the  hoaxers  in 
their  own  coin,  stampt  anew  in  the  mint  of  his  brains,  and  he 
did  not  let  it  escape  him. 

';  Poor  Tom,  poor  '  Tom's  acold  !'  I'm  sorry  for  him.  I'm 
sorry  that  his  farthing-candle-life  was  extinguished  by  my  hand, 
although  he  deserved  death  from  none  more.  i  This  even-hand 
ed  justice  commends  the  ingredients  of '  our  murderous  pis 
tols  to  our  own  breasts.  I  waraed  him  of  my  unerring  aim  ; 
but  the  '  thief  will  seek  the  halter.'  How  do  you  find  his 
wound  sirr  ?" 


122       The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  horse-shed, 

44 1  am  examining  it,  sir ;  I  am  torturing  him." 

*4  It  is  no  more  than  he  has  done  to  hundreds  of  hearers." 

44  I  am  afraid,  sirr,  he  will  never  play  again." 

44  Then  by  murdering  him  honourably,  I  have  prevented 
many  dishonourable  murders.  Shade  of  Shakspeare,  applaud 
me  !  He  will  never  again  murder  Macbeth  instead  of  Duncan, 
or  throttle  Othello  instead  of  Desdemona.  I  am  a  second 
Mahomet  overthrowing  idolatry !  The  wooden  god  of  the 
Yankee-doodles  lies  prostrate  !  Fie,  George  Frederick  to  tri 
umph  over  a  block.  Farewell,  poor  Tom  !  poor  enough." 
This  was  said  over  his  shoulder.  4'  I  could  have  better  spared 
a  better  actor — but  let  that  pass,  while  we  pass  to  our  pious 
meditations.  Who  takes  order  for  the  funeral?  Bear  tho 
body  in!"  When  sober  none  did  more  justice  to  his  rival's 
merit,  although  now  so  scurrilously  unjust. 

"  He  revives,  sir.     There  is  hope  yet,"  said  the  surgeon. 

44  Then  may  the  poets  mourn." 

While  the  pretended  dead  duellist  was  removed  into  tho 
house,  Cooke's  second  approached  '  him,  exclaiming,  "  The 
horses  are  ready,  sir ;  we  must  fly." 

44  We,  sirr !  when  I  fly  or  creep,  I  choose  my  company. 
George  Frederick  Cooke  never  flies  from  danger.  Fly,  sirr, 
if  the  idol  of  Yankee-land  lives,  there  is  nothing  to  apprehend 
from  his  worshippers,  nothing  to  fly  from,  except  when  he  acts ; 
and  if  he  dies,  and  by  my  hand,  I  have  honoured  him,  and  be 
nefited  the  world."  So  saying,  the  hero  strutted  most  sturdily 
to  the  steps  of  the  piazza,  where,  feeling  the  difficulty  of  ascent, 
he  recollected  his  wound,  called  for  assistance,  and  was  sup 
ported  to  the  table,  at  which  sat,  like  another  Banquo,  the  man 
whose  fall  he  triumphed  over. 

SpifTard  had  looked  on  unmoved  at  this  farce  :  unmoved 
except  by  feelings  peculiarly  his  own.  He  had  been  spell 
bound.  Although  suffering,  he  had  been  unable  to  move  or 
turn  his  eyes  from  the  objects  that  caused  his  pain.  He  was 
fascinated.  He  gazed  upon  the  scene  as  the  bird  fixes  her 
eyes  on  the  serpent  who  approaches  to  destroy  her  young  ;  and 
like  the  bird,  he  could  not  fly  or  withdraw  his  attention  from  that 
which  distressed  him.  His  eyes  followed  the  retiring  company, 
until  they  were  again  within  the  walls  accustomed  to  revelry, 
riot,  and  brawling.  He  then  turned  his  head,  and  perceived  for 
the  first  time,  that  he  had  a  companion. 

Sitting  on  the  same  bench,  under  the  horse-shed,  and  within 
a  few  feet  ®f  him,  he  saw  an  old  gentlemen  in  a  brown  suit  of 
clothes,  coat,  waistcoat,  and  breeches,  (an  article  of  clothing 
even  then  rarely  seen,)  his  cotton  stockings,  and  well 


The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  horse-shed.       123 

polished  shoes,  only  soiled  by  recent  dust,  denoted  him  a 
pedestrian.  He  supported  both  hands  on  his  silver  mounted 
cane,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  young  companion.  "  You 
appeared  to  be  interested  in  the  scene  that  has  just  passed. 
Do  you  know  any  of  the  sportive  gentlemen  who  have  been 
playing  such  strange  gambols  ?" 

"  I  know  them  all.     I  am  one  of  the  party." 

*'  But  you  have  not  joined  in  their  frolicsome  foolery." 

"  Perhaps  because  I  did  not  partake  of  the  exciting  cause." 

"  I  understand,"  was  the  stranger's  brief  reply. 

Spiffard  was  pleased  with  both  the  appearance  and  the  ad 
dress  of  the  senior,  whose  manner,  and  a  something  indepen 
dent  of  dress,  indicated  good  breeding  and  philanthropy, 
mingled  with  eccentricity.  Is  it  too  much  to  say  that  all  this 
may  be  seen  at  a  glance  ?  If  not  seen,  it  may  be  imagined. 
Imagination  is  rapid  in  conclusions. 

This  person  had  walked  into  the  horse-shed,  and  seated  him 
self,  while  Spiffard's  attention  had  been  so  occupied  that  he  was 
unconscious  of  his  approach.  The  old  gentleman  had  marked 
both  the  scene,  and  the  absorbing  interest  the  young  man  took 
in  it. 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation  of  these  chance-con 
nected  and  dissimilar  interlocutors,  during  which,  Spiffard  took 
note  of  the  figure,  dress,  and  attitude  of  the  person  to  whom  he 
felt  himself  attracted  by  something  stronger  than  mere  curiosity. 
In  his  sitting  posture,  the  tall,  thin  person  of  the  stranger  was 
supported,  as  he  bent  forward,  by  a  cane,  with  a  plain  round 
silver  head,  on  which  both  hands,  ungloved,  rested,  and  a 
mourning  ring  was  displayed  upon  a  finger  of  one.  As  his  head 
was  projected,  his  gray  locks,  not  time-thinned,  fell  on  either 
side  of  a  face,  pale,  and  marked  by  the  furrows  of  at  least  fifty 
years.  His  eyes  were  black  as  jet,  and  as  brilliant  as  the  most 
vigorous  intellect,  or  the  most  robust  health  and  youth  could 
display.  They  were  piercing  ;  but  the  bland  tranquillity  of  the 
surrounding  features  prevented  the  appearance  of  severity. 

"  You  are  one  of  the  party,"  said  the  stranger  ;  •'  but  you 
give  as  a  reason  for  not  joining  in  their  antics,  that  you  had  not 
partaken  of  the  exciting  cause ;  that  is,  as  I  understand — " 

"  Drinking  madeira  and  champagne." 

"  And  you  V 

11  Never  drink  any  liquor  but  water." 

"  Is  it  possible !" 

Here  followed  another  pause.     The  old  man  seemed  s«r- 


124       The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  horse-shed. 

prised.  He  repeated  his  last  words  several  times,  in  a  low 
tone,  as  to  himself. 

The  reader  must  recollect  that  I  record  events  of  five  and 
twenty  years  ago.  There  were  then  no  temperance  societies. 
Gentlemen — yes,  gentlemen,  did  not  think  themselves  degraded 
by  drunkenness. 

At  length  the  stranger  resumed,  "  You  dislike  wine  or  spirit 
uous  liquors,  perhaps  t" 

"  No,  on  the  contrary,  I  remember,  as  a  child,  being  delight 
ed  by  the  taste,  and  eagerly  desiring  wine." 

"  And  you  deny  yourself  the  gratification  !     Why  ?" 

"I  have  seen  the  misery  caused  by  indulgence." 

"  Have  you,  so  young,  seen  enough  to  produce  such  a  reso 
lution  ;  such  a  determined  abstinence  ?  If  you  had  seen  what 
I  have  seen — felt  what  I  have  felt !  you  would  curse  the  poison 
that  scatters  shame  and  sorrow  among  so  many  victims  of 
intemperance,  and  their  unhappy  relatives  !" 

The  colour  had  rushed  to  the  old  man's  cheeks,  and  his 
eyes,  before  bright,  now  shone  with  a  brilliancy  almost  super 
natural. 

If  I  have  made  myself  understood  in  the  previous  delineation 
of  SpifTard's  character,  and  the  circumstances  which  had  formed 
it,  I  need  not  say  that  the  words  and  looks  of  the  stranger  had 
on  him  the  effect  of  magic.  Those  chords  of  the  memory, 
feeling,  imagination,  which,  too  strongly  touched,  tended  to 
intellectual  derangement,  were  violently  assailed.  His  excite 
ment  rose  with  the  old  man's  voice,  and  the  fire  of  his  eyes 
maddened  him.  "  My  curses  join  with  yours  ;  I  have  seen  and 
felt  all  you  speak  of." 

"  Oh,  no !  you  have  not  looked  on  a  face  beloved,  and  seen 
it  distorted." 

"  I  have  !" 

"  You  have  not  seen  one  justly  beloved,  flying  from  the 
proud  eminence  his  virtues  had  gained  ;  the  beloved  shepherd 
of  a  Christian  flock  driven  to  despondency  by  admitting  doubts  ; 
a  despondency,  the  result  of  severe  application  upon  a  delicate 
frame ;  doubts,  the  effects  of  disease  ;  and  beheld  the  victim 
of  overstrained  research  seeking  a  refuge  from  doubt  in  certain 
destruction,  until  his  only  asylum  was  in  a  mad-house !" 

Spiffard's  feelings  had  so  long  been  pushed  beyond  the 
healthful  medium,  that  his  monomaniacal  propensities  had 
gained  full  power  over  him.  The  images  of  his  father  and 
jmother  rushed  before  his  imagination  so  vividly,  that  he  ap 
peared  to  see  them  with  his  bodily  eyes ;  and  the  form  and 


Tke  difference  between  a  tavern  and  a  horse-shed.     125 

lineaments  of  the  latter  were  strangely  commingled  with  those 
of  his  own  wife:  he  uttered  an  exclamation  that  attracted  tha 
attention  of  the  old  gentleman,  and  his  feelings  were  no  longer 
absorbed  in  self. 

Admiration,  produced  by  the  conduct  of  a  youth  who  appear 
ed  so  strongly  to  sympathize  with  him  in  a  sorrow  happily  not 
common,  took  possession  of  the  stranger,  and  changed  his  ex 
pressive  countenance  from  its  wildness,  to  a  softer  and  calmer 
appearance.  His  voice  faltered  as  he  attempted  to  utter  words 
intended  to  soothe  the  agitation  he  had  so  unaccountably- 
caused.  At  this  moment  the  noisy  bacchanalian  rout  issued 
from  the  house,  and  the  imaginary  gave  place  to  reality.  Tho 
shades  of  evening  were  closing  in.  Carriages  and  saddled 
horses  were  brought  to  the  door,  and  several  voices  shouted 
"  Spiffard !  Skulker !  Where  are  you  1  Where  is  the  water- 
drinker?" 

Cooke  insisted  upon  having  his  pedestrian  companion  as  an 
attendant  in  the  carriage  into  which  he  was  lifted ;  for  now,  in 
consequence  of  the  additional  cups  taken  in  token  of  reconcil 
iation  with  his  late  antagonist,  (who  had  miraculously  recovered 
from  his  mortal  wound,)  and  a  parting  glass,  or  stirrup-cup* 
drank  with  Cato,  who  had  been  dubbed  Emperor  of  Morocco, 
and  king  of  Utopia,  instead  of  Utica,  he  could  no  longer 
obtain  command  over  any  member  but  his  tongue,  which  in 
cessantly  demanded  Spiffard. 

But  Spiffard  had,  for  the  present,  a  stronger  attraction  in  the 
aged  stranger;  who,  refusing  to  take  a  place  in  one  of  the  hacks 
had  turned  his  steps  to  the  road,  as  if  determining  to  walk  to 
the  city. 

The  young  man  resolved  not  to  leave  him,  and  seeing  that  his 
former  pedestrian  companion  was  safely  stowed  in  a  carriage 
with  one  of  the  youngest  of  the  revellers,  who  promised  to  dcpos- 
ite  him  at  his  lodgings  and  with  trusty  Trustworthy,  the  water 
drinker  followed  his  new-made  acquaintance,  and  soon  overtook 
him,  although  he  was  walking  with  strides  and  vigour  unpromis- 
ed  by  his  grey  hairs  and  attenuated  form. 

Joining  the  old  gentleman,  Spiffard  asked  permission  to  ac 
company  him,  which  was  readily  granted,  with  an  expression 
of  gratification  that  one  so  young  should  prefer  walking  with 
him  to  the  easier  mode  of  accomplishing  the  journey.  There 
was  a  sympathetic  attraction  felt  by  these  two  dissimilar  indi 
viduals  not  commonly  experienced  by  two  of  the  male  sex  at 
first  sight 

rot,  i,  9 


126      The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  a  horse-shed* 

"  You  pay  me  a  compliment  by  preferring  my  company  to 
that  of  your  friends." 

After  a  silence  of  a  moment,  Spiffard  ejaculated,  "friends." 
'*  Perhaps  companions  would  have  been  a   more  suitable 
word." 

"  For  most  of  them,  sir  :  but  there  are  some  even  in  that 
riotous  company,  who,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  are  my 
friends." 

"  Not  any  engaged  in  the  farce  of  the  duel]" 
'*  Yes,  both  the  principal  actors  in  that  farce ;  one  intended 
by  the   authors  as  the  butt — even   the  long-erring   eccentric 
George  Frederick  Cooke  :  the   other,  the  frank  and  liberal 
minded  Cooper." 

"  Can  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Cooke  be  the  friend  of  any  one  ?" 
"  Yes,  sir,  if  that  one  has  shown  an  interest  in  his  welfare 
that  could  not  be  suspected  to  arise  from  selfishness.  1  may" 
be  mistaken  ;  but  I  think  he  is  attached  to  me  because  I  have 
opposed  his  mad  career,  and  have  rejected  firmly  his  excuses 
while  I  endeavored  to  strengthen  his  (hitherto  fruitless)  resolves 
to  amend,  and  to  give  effect  to  his  penitence.  O,  how  truly, 
in  one  of  his  comedies,  Holcroft  has  called  repentance  a  sneak 
ing,  snivelling  fellow,  when  not  accompanied  by  amendment. 
I  don't  Ojiiote  his  words." 

"  The  words  of  a  play  are  seldom  worth  quoting." 
"  The  words  of  truth  are  as  acceptable  from  a  play  as  from 
a  homily — from  a  stage  as  from  a  pulpit — falsehood  is  always 
detestable  and  truth  always  to  be  reverenced." 

"  I  spoke  hastily — I  was  occupied  by  my  feelings  respecting 
that  grey-haired  actor  whose  folly  I  had  been  wifnessing.  I 
felt  that  plays  were  worthless,  viewing  the  conduct  of  players. 
I  was  wrong." 

"  You  do  injustice  now  to  players,  as  then  to  plays.  You 
forget  that  men  of  every  profession  play  the  fool.  Even  in  the 
fools-play  which  you  have  witnessed,  and  which  boys  might  be 
ashamed  of,  there  were  only  two  players  to  ten  men  of  other 
denominations  ;  men  with  more  fixed  occupations  and  connex 
ions  ;  more  generally  esteemed  in  society;  but  all  as  eager  in 
the  childish  game  and  as  deeply  involved  in  the  guilt  of  intem 
perance,  as  the  man  you  stigmatize  as  the  grey-haired-actor." 
"  Foliy  is  doubly  despicable  connected  with  grey  hairs." 
*'  True,  sir,  but  not  more  in  an  actor  than  in  a  merchant*, 
physician  or  lawyer." 

"  Your  remark  is  just.  But  you  have  excited  my  curiosity. 
What  could  have  induced  one  so  young  and  so  firmly  attached 


The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  horse-shed.       127 

to  habits  of  temperance,    to  seek  the  company  of  an  old  in 
veterate,  irreclaimable  debauchee?" 

"  Old,  inveterate,  but  perhaps  not  irreclaimable.  While  life 
remains,  there  is  hope.  We  do  not  despair  of  returning  reason 
for  the  lunatic  or  the  maniac." 

"  True,— true,— thank  God  !   thank  God  !" 

The  pedestrians  were  by  this  time  walking  in  that  imperfect, 
though  oft  times  pleasant,  light,  which  the  stars  alone  shed  over 
an  American  landscape  in  autumn  ;  and  Spiffard  did  not  observe 
t  he  change  his  words  had  produced  upon  his  companion  ;  the 
convulsive  expression  of  feature  with  which  he  uttered  the  few 
last  words. 

"  Such  being  the  nature  of  man,"  the  youth  proceeded, 
"  and  the  power  of  truth,  persuasively  employed,  being  great 
beyond  our  knowledge,  surely  we  ought  not  to  abandon  as  ir 
reclaimable  any  of  our  fellow-creatures  who  are  not  perma 
nently  deprived  of  reason.  Mr.  Cooke  has  a  powerful  mind, 
and  although  perverted  and  debased  by  the  second  nature  of" 
habit,  perhaps  the  inclinations  implanted  in  the  first,  may  be 
restored,  and  the  patient  saved.  I  am  influenced  by  motives 
flowing  from  circumstances  touching  me  nearly,  as  has  been 
already  hinted." 

"Yes!"  said  the  old  man.  "  Yes,  I  can  understand.  You 
have  witnessed  the  mental  alienation  of  some  one  dear  to  you. 
You  are  a  stranger  to  me,  and  I  have  already  spoken  to  you  as 
men  of  the  world  do  not  often  speak  to  strangers,  but  it  is  evi 
dent  that  we,  however  dissimilar  in  other  respects,  are  alike  suf 
ferersfrom  the  same  cause,  and  that  is  a  source  of  sympathy 
with,  minds  under  the  governance  of  reason.  The  loss  of  rea 
son  in  one  dear  to  me  has  caused  the  greatest  suffering  I  havo 
ever  experienced.  I  have  to-day,  within  a  few  hours,  wit 
nessed  his  deplorable  condition  ;  and  seeing,  as  I  did  in  your 
presence,  such  voluntary  relinquishment  of  the  greatest  bless 
ing  bestowed  on  man,  I  lose  my  self-command,  and  utter  that 
which  had  better,  perhaps,  have  been  locked  in  the  breast,  and 
guarded  with  close  lips." 

There  was  a  long  pause  in  the  colloquy  of  the  two  pedes 
trians.  We  will  not  continue  to  report  in  detail  any  more  of 
the  conversation  touching  this  subject.  Our  hero's  return 
walk  from  Cato's  was  a  perfect  contrast  to  that  which  car 
ried  him  thither.  His  companion  was  equally  an  opposite, 
in  all  but  age,  and  in  an  alacrity  for  walking.  The  old  gen 
tleman  was  an  habitual  pedestrian,  and  could  talk,  although 
walking  at  a  good  round  pace.  His  feelings  had  been  excited 


128       The  difference  between  a  tavern  and  korse-slied* 

by  circumstances ;  his  confidence  was  gained  by  the  open 
manner,  and  the  truth-stamped  physiognomy  of  our  homely 
hero. 

They  reciprocally  imparted  their  names,  and  Mr.  Littlejohn 
(such  was  the  stranger's  appellation)  made  known  many  cir 
cumstances  relative  to  his  domestic  griefs,  which  were  drawn 
from  him  by  the  conversation  we  have  related.  He  said  that 
he  was  returning  from  a  visit  to  his  unhappy  son,  (who  was 
confined  in  the  lunatic  asylum,)  when  he  stopped  at  Cato's, 
attracted  by  the  scene  he  had  there  witnessed. 

We  will  dedicate  another  chapter  to  the  character  and  con 
versation  of  Mr.  Littlejohn  arid  his  companion,  by  which  the 
reader  will  find,  or  may  suspect,  that  the  old  gentleman  will 
perform  no  unimportant  part  in  our  drama. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  walk  back  to  town. 

"I  could  wish  courtesy  would  invent  some  other  custom  of 
ment." 


"  One  draught  above  heat,  makes  him  a  fool ;  the  second  mads  him,  aa<J 
the  third  drowns  him." 


«I  *  *  *  never  was  forsworn ; 
Scarcely  have  coveted  what  was  mine  own; 
At  no  time  broke  my  faith ;  *  *  *  and  delight 
No  less  in  truth  than  life." — Shakspeare, 

"  A  dramatic  exhibition  is  a  book  recited  with  concomitants  that  m- 
crease  or  diminish  ita  effect." 


"It  was  said  of  Euripides,  that  every  verse  was  a  precept,  and  it  may  be 
said  of  Shakspeare,  that  from  his  works  may  be  collected  a  system  of  civil 
and  economical  prudence." — Johnson. 

"He  (Shakspeare)  needed  not  the  spectacles  of  books  to  read  nature;  ha 
looked  inwards,  and  found  her  there." — Dry  den. 

SPIFFARD  had  a  predilection  for  aged  companions.  Old 
age  is  reverenced  for  its  supposed  concomitants ;  as,  perhaps, 
Doctor  Johnson  would  have  said.  If  they  are  absent,  old  age 
is  poor,  indeed.  Our  hero  generally  found  age  enriched  by 
experience,  and  sometimes  by  a  well-stored  memory,  where 


T?ie  walk  back  to  tovm.  129 

characters  and  events  are  recorded,  that  had  escaped  the  his 
torian  or  biographer ;  and  he  found  that  the  old,  for  the  most 
part,  were  pleased  by  his  attentions,  and  rewarded  them  by 
confidence.  Age  is  garrulous ;  but  this,  if  the  memory  is  per 
fect  and  the  love  of  truth  strong,  may  be  a  source  of  great 
profit  to  youth.  A  selfish,  dogmatical,  egotistical  old  man  is  a 
nuisance, — he  is  always,  regardless  of  truth.  Such  was  not 
the  character  of  Spiffards  present  companion. 

James  Littlejohn  was  a  merchant,  and  a  successful  one.  He 
had  imbibed  a  taste  for  books  before  he  was  confined  to  the 
counting-house,  and  his  knowledge  was  not  limited  to  the  ac 
cumulation  of  dollars  and  cents,  or  his  conversation  to  "  the 
market,"  or  the  value  of  stock.  He  was  a  rich  and  prosperous 
merchant.  A  good  man  off  and  on  'change  :  beloved  by  his 
friends,  and  trusted  to  any  extent  on  the  Rialto  of  Wall-street. 
Was  he  happy  1  No.  He  had  lost  his  wife.  He  loved  her 
more  than  rupees.  She  left  him  two  sons  ;  the  oldest  a  severe 
student,  lost  health  in  seeking  knowledge,  and  died  at  his  desk ; 
the  youngest  likewise  an  ardent  student,  had  devoted  himself 
to  theology,  and  had  been  admitted  to  sacerdotal  power,  by  or 
dination.  The  fair  promise  of  his  usefulness  had  been  blasted 
by  an  unhappy  attachment  to  a  beautiful  girl,  who,  after  encou 
raging  his  addresses,  threw  herself  away  upon  a  worthless  fo 
reigner,  an  impostor,  with  an  assumed  title,  who  deserted  her 
to  mortified  pride,  fruitless  repentance,  and  early  death.  The 
young  man  was  changed,  he  shunned  society,  devoted  himself 
to  abstruse  metaphysical  reading,  and  after  a  short  career  as  a 
preacher,  admitted  doubts  and  opinions  which  he  honestly  ex 
pressed,  and  in  consequence  was  obliged  to  retire  from  the 
pulpit.  The  conflicts  in  his  mind,  with  the  disappointments 
ambition  and  love  had  received,  ended  in  his  becoming  a  des 
ponding  maniac,  and  as  such  he  was  now  an  inmate  of  the  lu 
natic  asylum.  During  the  earlier  progress  of  this  disease  of 
the  mind,  he,  for  a  short  time,  sought  refuge  from  his  perturbed 
thoughts,  his  doubts  and  misgivings,  in  stimulants  ;  but  his  bet 
ter  feelings  caused  him  to  reject  this  miserable  resource,  which 
only  hastened  the  prostration  of  intellect,  and  he  sunk  into 
hopeless  melancholy,  with  occasional  paroxysms  of  violence ; 
during  which  he  cursed  existence,  and  accused  the  justice  of 
heaven.  Many  of  these  circumstances  were  imparted  by  the 
afflicted  father  during  this  evening  walk,  and  Spiffard  frankly 
made  known  the  history  of  his  brief  life,  and  explained  the 
cause  of  his  abhorrence  of  that  particular  vice,  the  con- 


130  The  walk  back  to  town. 

templation  of  whose  effects  had  temporarily  united  him  and  his 
companion,  and  seemed  to  indicate  further  intimacy. 

Various  topics  were  discussed,  in  a  walk  of  several  miles  ; 
and  Mr.  Littlejohn  was  struck  with  surprise  at  the  clearness 
with  which  Spifiard  spoke  on  many  subjects  not  usually  made 
familiar  to  young  men.  He  could  not  likewise  but  observe 
the  confidence  Spifiard  evinced  in  the  kindly  disposition  of  his 
fellow-creatures,  an  absence  of  suspicion  which  bordered  on  in 
fantile  simplicity.  He  had  no  "  art  to  find  the  mind's  con 
struction  in  the  face."  The  seeming  good,  were,  to  his  eyes, 
truly  good. 

After  one  of  those  pauses,  which  must  occur  even  when  dia- 
iogtsts  are  prone  to  communicativeness,  Mr.  Littlejohn  broke 
silence  by  saying1,  "  I  was  surprised  when  you  told  me  that 
you  are  a  player  by  profession,  for  it  is  long  since  I  have 
thought  of  the  theatre,  or  noticed  a  play-house  placard.  Your 
appearance,  manner,  conversation,  are  all  at  variance  with  my 
former  knowledge  of  actors,  and  with  my  preconceived  opinions 
of  that  class  of  men.  I  must  consider  you  as  an  exception  to 
a  general  rule.  You  have  more  acquaintance  with  literature, 
more  knowledge  of  history,  and  of  the  relative  situations  and 
interests  of  the  nations  of  Europe  :  you  are  better  acquainted 
with  the  laws  and  institutions  of  this  country  than  belongs  to 
one  whose  pursuits  are  those  necessarily  connected  with  a  pro 
fession  so  superficial." 

"  The  profession  does  not  deserve  the  epithet,  sir,  and  as  tc) 
my  knowledge  of  American  affairs,  you  must  suppose  that  as 
an  American  I  am  bound  to  know  more  of  them  than  foreign 
ers  do  :  I  certainly  should  be  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  did  not. 
A  good  actor  must  make  himself  acquainted  with  so  many 
things,  that  he  can  hardly  be  considered  a  superficial  man,  at 
least  when  compared  with  the  generality  of  mankind.  The  old 
gentleman  whose  mock  duel  and  bacchanalian  behaviour  at 
tracted  your  attention,  is  no  superficial  man.  He  has  read 
much,  thought  much." 

"  Not  to  much  purpose,  or  he  would  not  pervert  the  gifts  of 
God  in  the  manner  he  does.  But  in  that  he  is  not  singular.  I 
do  not  charge  this  vice  on  your  profession  exclusively,  but  I 
fear  that  those  who  are  devoted  to  the  stage  are  more  in  the  way 
of  temptation  than  most  men." 

"  Then  sir,"  said  the  actor,  "  the  stage  must  be  an  evil." 

"  As  it  has  been,  and  is  conducted  in  most  countries,  and 
especially  in  England  and  America,  I  believe  it  is,'J  rejoined 
the  merchant. 


The  walk  back  to  town.  131 

**Yet,  sir,"  said  Spiffard,  "good  men  have  advocated  theat 
rical  establishments." 

"  In  the  abstract.  The  theory  is  beautiful.  Moral  lessons, 
rendered  as  indelible  as  they  are  delightful.  But  if  the  mana 
ger  or  director  aims  at  pleasing  rather  than  instructing,  at  filling 
his  purse  rather  than  other  men's  minds,  he  seeks  that  which 
will  please  the  idle  and  profligate,  because  they  are  the  majo 
rity  of  mankind." 

"  Garrick  has  said,  sir,  « those  who  live  to  please,  must 
please  to  live.'  " 

"  So  the  unhappy  victim  of  seduction  may  excuse  her  flaunt 
ing  finery  and  painted  face.  It  is  the  plea  of  the  meretricious. 
If  it  is  necessary  to  flatter  vice,  and  encourage  folly  for  the 
support  of  an  institution,  that  institution  is  wrong,  and  must  be 
abandoned.  I  can  conceive  of  a  theatre  which  would  be  a 
school  of  morality,  but  it  must  be  directed  by  a  wise  govern 
ment,  or  academical  institution,  and  not  by  those  who  live  to 
please,  and  4  must  please  to  live.'  Temperance  has  not  hi 
therto  been  encouraged  by  theatrical  institutions.  Intempe 
rance  and  its  attendant  vices  prevail  within  and  around  the 
atres  ;  and  (he  lessons  of  dramatists  are  little  calculated  to  era 
dicate  the  evil.  Sheridan  exhibits  his  hero  and  his  compan 
ions  revelling  in  bacchanalian  licentiousness,  and  makes  vice 
glory  in  her  deformity.  Who  can  calculate  the  mischief  pro 
duced  and  propagated  by  that  one  scene  of  revelry  in  the  School 
for  Scandal,  or  of  the  one  song,  '  let  the  toast  pass  ?'  ' 

**  Or  of  any  other  drinking  song,  sir,  of  which  we  have  so 
many  not  connected  with  the  drama." 

"  True,  but  from  the  stage  it  is  conveyed  to  thousands,  in 
its  thousand-times  repetition,  who  would  otherwise  never  have 
heard  of  it.  Besides,  sir,  it  comes  recommended  by  the 
wit  of  the  author  personified  in  the  profligate  Charles,  who 
is  held  up  as  the  object  of  admiration  and  imitation.  It 
is  recommended  to  assembled  thousands,  who  thoughtlessly  ap 
plaud  while  poisoned  by  the  cup  they  commend  to  the  lips  of 
others.  Who  shall  say  that  this  very  song  did  not  cause  its 
author  to  live  a  scoffer  at  prudence,  and  die  a  bloated  pau 
per?" 

"  But,  sir,  the  stage  presents  many  of  the  finest  lessons  in 
favour  of  temperance,  and  in  the  most  impressive  language." 

"  Its  lessons  are  rendered  of  no  avail  by  the  frequency  of  ex 
hibiting  ebriety  merely  as  a  venial  vice,  and  its  subjects  as 
pardonable  objects,  to  be  laughed  at  merely,  if  not  commend 
ed.  Whereas  the  dramatist  who  should  do  his  duty,  would 


132  Tne  walk  back  to  town. 

show  the  vice  as  leading  to  all  evil,  and  its  subject  such  as  he 
truly  is,  disgusting,  loathsome,  and  a  cowardly  suicide," 

"  You  forget,  sir,  that  men  will  not  congregate  to  see  the 
disgusting  and  the  loathsome,"  said  Spiffard. 

The  merchant  replied. — "  The  skilful  dramatist  has  shown 
the  miiery  consequent  upon  the  practice  of  gaming,  and  might 
exhibit  the  sufferings  which  flow  from  the  disgusting  and  de 
structive  vice  of  which  we  speak;  and  he  should  contrast 
them  with  the  strength,  health,  cheerfulness,  and  power  of  doing 
good,  which  are  the  result  of  temperance." 

"  And  so  he  has.  The  passages  are  numberless  to  that  ef 
fect,  especially  in  Shakspeare's  plays.  How  beautiful  is  the 
picture  of  the  faithful  old  servant  in  '  As  You  Like  It,'  whose 
temperance  has  given  him  the  power  to  protect  the  oppressed 
son  of  his  deceased  master  !" 

•'  Beautiful ! — but  I  fear  that  the  picture  of  the  guzzling, 
bragging,  lying,  contemptible  (yet  favourite)  Falstaff,  is  longer 
remembered,  and  more  often  copied,  than  that  of  good  old 
Adam." 

*'  Then  the  lesson  given  by  the  evils  Cassio  experiences  in 
consequence  of  yielding  to  temptation.  His  deep  sense  of 
his  own  degradation.  His  bitter  exclamation,  that  he  is  4  huri 
past  all  surgery.'  r 

"  I  remember  the  scene  well,  and  have  often  meditated  on 
it ;  but  common  auditors  see  in  Cassio's  fall  from  duty,  only  a 
subject  for  laughter  ;  while  lago's  '  wine  is  a  good  creature,* 
makes  a  more  lasting  impression  than  Cassio's  disgrace  and 
repentance.  Why  cannot  some  dramatist  show  the  wife  weep 
ing  over  her  children  the  live-long  night,  heart-sick  at  the  an 
ticipation,  from  experience,  of  a  husband  and  father,  returning 
to  his  home  brutalized,  to  insult  her  he  had  sworn  to  love  and 
cherish ;  to  mislead  those  who  look  to  him  for  precept  and  ex 
ample." 

"  The  public  would  not  receive  the  piece,"  said  the  actor. 

**  I  will  not  believe  so  meanly  of  the  public." 

•'  Why,  sir,"  persisted  Spiffard,  "  even  a  novelist  would  not 
dare  to  make  so  low  and  despicable  a  vice  the  theme  of  his 
story." 

*4  Then,"  resumed  Littlejohn,  "  the  momentous  moral  les 
son  must  not  be  given  for  fear  of  shocking  the  ears  or  eyes  of 
the  polite  ?  Or,  perhaps  the  poor  author  might  write  in  vain, 
as  no  publisher  could  be  found  to  patronize  his  work." 

44  Then  I  think,  sir,  it  must  be  because  the  publisher  thought 
it  would  not  sell,"  said  Spiffard. 


The  walk  back  to  town.  133 

*•  True,'*  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  I  believe  that  is  the  only 
criterion,  for  1  have  known  publishers  who  made  the  strongest 
professions  of  religion  and  morality,  giving  to  the  world  the 
seducing  scenes  of  '  Tom  Jones,'  without  scruple  ;  scenes  in 
which  obscenity  is  only  veiled  sufficiently  to  be  made  more 
dangerous." 

"  I  think,  sir,  you  can  scarcely  say  it  is  veiled.'-' 

While  thus  conversing,  an  incident  occurred  which  was  a 
commentary  on  the  subject  of  discussion.  Our  pedestrians 
had  left  at  Cato's  a  set  of  revellers  who  were  distinct  from 
those  they  had  seen  and  moralized  upon.  And  their  conver 
sation  was  interrupted  by  shouts,  cracking  of  whips,  clattering 
of  hoofs,  and  the  rushing  sound  of  wheels.  Two  gigs  rapidly 
passed  them,  and  the  same  moment,  while  striving  for  the  glory 
of  precedence,  came  in  collision.  While  yet  the  air  resounded 
with  riotous  shouts,  one  of  the  youths  who  had  uttered  them,  lay 
senseless  and  mangled  by  a  rock  which  had  received  him 
upon  the  overturning  of  the  carriage.  His  skull  was  fractured. 
The  reasoning  faculty  which  had  been  bestowed  by  the  Crea 
tor,  to  preserve  life,  with  life  had  fled,  after  having  been  driven 
from  its  post  by  the  enemy  of  life  and  reason.  The  pedes 
trians  hastened  to  the  spot,  and  found  the  youth  dead.  That 
frame  which  a  minute  before  was  rioting  in  pulsation,  and  spurred 
to  madness  by  wine,  was  senseless  ; — irretrievably  self-mur 
dered.  His  immediate  companion  lay  groaning  at  a  short  dis 
tance,  unable  to  rise,  but  reserved,  perhaps,  to  profit  by  the 
dreadful  lesson.  The  hack  horse  had  gladly  stopped  by  the 
overturned  gig.  The  votaries  of  reason  and  temperance  busied 
themselves  with  endeavours  to  remedy  the  ills  produced  by  the 
folly  they  detested. 

And  where  were  the  companions  of  the  dead,  the  rivals  in 
the  race  ? 

On  they  went,  shouting  in  triumph !  With  the  recklessness 
of  irrational  beings.  On  they  passed,  either  careless  of  their 
late  associates  in  revelry,  (for  nothing  hardens  the  heart  so  much 
as  the  practice  of  what  is  called  goodfellowship,)  or  thinking 
lightly  of  the  overturn,  as  of  a  frequent  occurrence,  in  which 
they  had  no  part. 

One  of  the  youths  was  dead,  the  other  stunned  by  the  fall. 
When  assisted  and  led  to  the  spot  where  the  first  lay  a  man 
gled  corse  ;  the  full  sense  of  his  situation  rushed  with  re 
turning  consciousness  upon  the  survivor.  The  fumes  of  wine 
were  dissipated,  he  recollected  the  past,  saw  the  horrors  of  the 
present,  and  anticipated  the  scene  that  must  ensue  when  the 

9* 


134  Tfte  walk  back  to  town. 

parents  should  see  a  son  brought  into  their  presence  a  corpse, 
who  had  last  been  seen  in  all  the  pride  of  opening  manhood. 
When  the  unhappy  youth  was  thus  suddenly  restored  to  rea 
son,  he  uttered  with  a  cry  of  agony,  «*  My  brother  !"  and  fell 
on  the  corse,  senseless. 

TVe  pass  over  particulars.  The  brothers  were  placed  in  the 
carriage,  late  so  triumphantly  mounted  and  impelled.  One 
brother  supported  the  inanimate  body  of  the  other,  while  Mr. 
Littlejohn  walked  by  the  side  of  the  gig,  and  Spiffard  led  the 
horse.  They  stopped  at  the  first  house  on  the  road,  and  were 
received  with  kindness,  but  no  assistance  could  be  rendered, 
and  in  the  same  order  they  proceeded  to  town. 

Our  pedestrians  left  their  charge  at  the  house  of  the  parents. 
It  was  not  for  them  to  intrude,  and  they  retired  unnoticed  du 
ring  a  scene  of  confusion  and  misery  too  profound  for  us  to  at 
tempt  a  description  of. 

Late  in  the  evening,  Mr.  Littlejohn  and  his  young  friend, 
now  united  in  intimacy  by  these  chance  circumstances,  sepa 
rated  for  their  several  places  of  rest.  The  rich  merchant,  af 
ter  giving  his  card,  and  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand,  to  his 
young  companion,  wended  his  way  to  a  towering  house,  (at  a 
distance  from  his  store-houses  and  compting-room,)  where  he 
found  every  comfort  and  luxury  but  those  of  domestic  society  : 
the  poor  player  directed  his  steps  to  an  humble  dwelling,  not 
far  from  the  theatre  which  he  enriched  by  his  talents.  He 
found  society,  but  not  such  as  was  suited  to  him.  That  por 
tion  most  immediately  connected  with  his  happiness  had  un 
dergone  a  change  in  his  eyes,  and  was  daily  deteriorating  from 
that  alluring  appearance  which  had  caused  him  to  become  one 
of  the  household. 


The  Lwwiic  Asylv**.  135 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  Lunatic  Jlsylum, 

"  There's  rue  for  you,  and  here's  some  for  me." 

"  As  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night 
Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 
Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  man  tie 
Their  clear  reason.  - — Shakspeare. 

11  The  praise  of  those  who  sleep  in  earth. 

The  pleasant  memory  of  their  worth, 

The  hope  to  meet  when  life  is  past, 

Shall  heal  the  tortured  mind  at  last. 

But  ye,  who  for  the  living  lost 

That  agony  in  secret  bear, 
Who  shall  with  soothing  words  accost 
Tha  strength  of  your  despair?" — Bryant ', 

"  One  sees  more  devils  than  all  hell  can  hold, 
That  is  the  madman." 

"  Prithee,  nuncle,  tell  me,   whether  a  madman  be  a  gentleman  or 
yeoman. ' ' — Shakspeare. 

THE  attachment  felt  by  the  two  individuals  who  had  beea 
thrown  together  by  what  is  called  chance,  at  Cato's,  was  in 
creased  during  their  walk  home,  and  each  felt  the  desire  to 
know  more  of  the  other.  They  were  drawn  to  this  first  meet 
ing  by  an  inscrutable  succession  of  links,  (a  chain  unknown  to 
themselves,)  and  although  in  most  respects  dissimilar,  there 
was  one  point  which,  after  being  brought  in  contact  united 
them  ;  and  caused  a  determination  in  both,  although  separated 
by  diverse  occupations  and  the  numerous  bars  that  society  places 
between  the  rich  and  poor,  to  seek  each  other ;  and  to  com 
mune  freely  on  that  subject  which  occupied  their  secret 
thoughts.  A  subject  on  which  they  could  not — would  not — 
speak  to  the  crowds  with  whom  they  mingled  in  commoa 
worldly  intercourse. 

Spiffard  had  his  feelings  strongly  interested  in  all  that  con 
cerned  Mr.  Littlejohn  ;  but  particularly  in  the  fate  of  his  son. 
The  father  was  habitually  a  visitor  to  the  asylum.  He  had 
treasures  on  the  sea  and  on  the  land  ;  on  every  sea  and  every 
shore ;  but,  where  his  greatest  treasure  was,  there  was  his 
heart  also ;  and  that  was  in  a  small  room  surrounded  by  keep 
ers,  and  bolts,  locks  and  bars,  the  maniac's  shriek,  the  idiot'* 


136  The  Lunatic  Assylttm* 

laugh,  and  the  unmeaning  gabble  of  unfortunate  creatures, 
once  rational.  It  was  not  difficult  for  Mr.  Littlejohn  to  in 
duce  Spiffard,  who  cultivated  the  intimacy  so  strangely  com 
menced,  to  accompany  him  on  a  visit  to  the  place  where  the 
(not  yet  hopeless)  wreck  of  his  hopes — the  ruins  not  irretriev 
able,  as  he  thought,  of  his  beloved  son,  were  deposited. 

They  met  the  amiable  physician  of  the  institution  at  the 
door. 

"  How  is  he  to-day  ?" 

"  Perfectly  composed." 

They  found  the  unfortunate  man  reading  his  bible.  He  ap 
peared  between  thirty  and  forty  years  of  age.  He  looked  up, 
but  scarce  noticed  their  presence,  resuming  his  studies  as  if  no 
one  had  entered  the  apartment.  His  fine  features  were  colour 
less.  His  black,  strait,  thin  hair,  was  smoothed  on  his  fore 
head,  and  he  repeatedly  passed  his  hand  over  it,  from  the  crown 
of  the  head  nearly  to  the  eyes,  seemingly  unconscious  of  the 
action.  His  left  hand  supported  his  head,  or  occasionally 
turned  a  leaf,  as  he  appeared  to  seek  a  text.  His  tall  and  finely 
formed  frame  was  clothed  in  sables.  His  bright,  jet-black  eyes 
had  rested  a  moment  on  his  father,  and  then  glanced  vacantly 
at  Spiffard.  No  other  motion  indicated  his  knowledge  of  their 
presence. 

They  unasked,  took  chairs ;  and  had  been  seated  several 
minutes,  (the  father's  eye  fixed  on  the  son,  and  Spiffard  earn 
estly  observing  both)  when  Mr.  Littlejohn  drew  his  chair  near 
er  to  the  student — but  the  approach  was  not  hseded. 

*'  My  son, — " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  interrupted,  sir." 

41  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  your  father?" 

"  By  no  means,  all.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  discuss  the  subject 
now.  I  have  been  earnestly  engaged  for  some  time  past  in 
this  particular  study ;  and  have  been  examining  many  texts. 
But  although  I  do  not  feel  that  I  owe  any  thing  to  you  as  a 
father,  I  owe  to  myself,  to  you,  and  to  society,  the  attentions 
due  from  one  gentleman  to  another." 

So  saying  he  paused  and  shut  the  book.  He  then  fixed  his 
penetrating  eyes  on  the  eyes  of  Spiffard  for  a  moment ;  after 
which  they  wandered  restlessly,  and  he  burst  forth  wildly — 

**  You  have  brought  a  stranger  with  you  to  witness  the  havoc 
that  you  and  I  have  made  upon  one  of  God's  creatures.  Why 
is  it  ?  You  have  caged  me  here  like  a  wild-beast,  and  now 
bring  the  idle  or  curious  to  gee  the  monster.  Fine  sport ! 
Fine  sport !" 


The  Lunatic  Jisylvm.  137 

•*  This  gentleman,  my  son — " 

44 1  want  no  apologies  sir.  He  is  excusable — let  him  go 
home  and  triumph  in  his  own  superior  intellect — let  him  thank 
Heaven  that  tie  is  not  like  others. — I  am  aware  of  the  cause 
which  did  render  it  expedient  to  restrain  me  by  bolts,  and  bars, 
and  keepers — did  ?  Perhaps  does.  But  I  am,  as  I  think,  capa 
ble  of  judging  for  myself,  and  have  determined  how  long  that 
restraint  shall  last.  You  have  exerted  an  authority  founded 
upon  the  supposed  rights  of  a  father  :  I  have  been  inquiring 
into  those  rights  and  rind  them  null,  and  the  authority  an  usur 
pation.  I  owe  you  no  obedience.  I  renounce -what  is  mis 
called  filial  duty.  You  are  the  cause  of  my  existing  in  this 
world  of  folly  and  misery — I  do  not  thank  you  for  it." 

This  was  said  with  more  calm  bitterness  than  might  have 
been  expected  from  his  state,  or  than  the  words  indicate.  He 
had  ceased  the  action  of  his  right  hand  at  the  time  that  with  his 
left,  he  closed  the  book  ;  and  clasping  both,  he  now  rested  them 
on  the  Bible,  and  looked  full  in  his  father's  face. 

**  The  book  on  which  you  lean,  bodily,  and  I  hope  mentally, 
bids  you  honour  your  father  and  your  mother." 

**  *  That  my  days  may  be  long  in  the  land.'  True.  The 
promised  reward  is  earthly.  All  the  promises  to  the  Jews 
were  so.  Warburton  is  right  in  that.  That  my  days  may  be 
long.  Is  that  a  blessing  ? — or  a  curse  V* 

"  That  depends  upon  ourselves,"  said  Spiffard,  seeing  that 
the  afflicted  father  remained  silent. 

**  No  sir !  4  it  is  the  cause  my  soul — it  is  the  cause' — it  is  the 
hidden  cause  that  controls  all.  I  sought  not  this  existence — I 
Bought  not  any  existence — here,  1  am — and — miserable !" 

**  My  son,  the  book  on  which  you  rest,  and  on  which  our 
fcopes  rest,  has  not  inspired  thoughts  like  these.  They  are 
suggested  by  that  which  would  lead  to  thanldessness  towards 
your  God,  as  well  as  undutiful  thoughts  of  your  father  and  your 
soother." 

**  My  poor  mother !" 

**  Happily  she  has  been  spared — "  The  father  checked  him 
self,  and  the  son  proceeded. 

**  I  did  love  her.  Surely  not  because  she  was  my  mother. 
That  was  no  more  her  choice  than  mine.  I  loved  her  because 
she  was  good,  kind,  affectionate — as  I  ought  to  love  all  rny 
lellow-creatures — all — all — all — God's  creatures  placed  here 
by  his  will,  not  their  own  :  enjoying  and  suffering — all — all 
Siled  with  life,  and  doomed  to  death  by  an  unavoidable  sen 
tence,  passed  upon  them  before  birth.  A  death  they  must  as 


138  The  Lunatic  Asylum. 

certainly  undergo  as  though  they  had  been  arraigned  before  an 
earthly  judge,  convicted  of  the  most  deadly  crimes,  and  assign 
ed  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  jailer  and  the  hangman.  They 
are  reprieved  from  day  to  day,  only  to  be  told  by-and-byt  *  to 
night  you  must  surely  die.'  "  His  father  interrupted  him. 

"  After  the  free  gift  of  life,  health,  enjoyment — " 

The  insane  man  continued — "  All !  yes,  all !  before  the  mo  - 
ment  in  which  they  breathe,  are  doomed  to  sickness,  sorrow, 
death,  the  grave  and  the  worm  ;  4  to  lie  in  cold  obstruction  and 
to  rot.'  " 

"  And  rise  to  light  and  life  and  immortality  !" 

44  The  death  is  certain;  but — " 

44  Hold  !  I  command  you.  Your  father  commands  you  to 
forbear  such  language,  and  dismiss  such  thoughts." 

Here  there  was  a  long  pause.  The  agitated  father  sat  erect, 
and  with  a  flushed  countenance,  darted  a  look  of  authority  upon 
his  son,  who  momentarily  quailed  under  it.  He  lifted  his  arms 
from  the  bible  on  which  he  had  been  leaning,  and,  as  if  sur 
prised,  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  opening  his  large  and 
brilliant  eyes  with  a  confused  expression  ;  but  another  train  of 
thought  and  feeling  soon  came  over  his  mind,  and  his  face  as 
sumed  an  expression  of  irony,  bordering  on  contempt. 

44  Command  !  That's  well  enough  said.  Command  !  As 
if  one  man  could  control  the  thoughts  of  another.  Thought, 
that  is  set  in  motion  by  circumstances  unforseen  and  uncon 
trollable.  Words  may  be  commanded  ;  that  it  is  which  makes 
hypocrisy  so  easy — damnable  hypocrisy  !  Words  ought  to  be 
controlled,  so  as  not  to  injure  the  hearer.  I  will  be  silent  if  my 
words  offend  you,  but  for  my  thoughts  they  are  uncontrollable. 
You  have  come  hither  unbidden  by  me  ;  contrary  to  my  wish 
or  will  have  you  come  hither  and  broken  in  upon  my  studies, 
as,  without  wish  or  will  of  mine,  you  were  an  agent  in  bringing; 
me  into  existence  ;  for  both,  or  either,  I  owe  you  neither  thanks 
nor  ill-will.  My  good  will  towards  you  is  founded  on  my 
knowledge  that  you  are  a  creature  like  myself,  with  like  pas 
sions,  like  sufferings,  and  doomed  to  a  like  end." 

"  And  is  that  all,  my  son?" 

44  No,  no,  not  all.  We  have  been  thrown  together  so  inti 
mately,  that  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  life  have  appeared  to  flow 
from  one  to  the  other,  sometimes  ;  and  sometimes  to  both  from 
the  same  source.  Remembrance  of  the  past,  gives  more  power 
to  your  will,  than  to  the  wishes  of  another — so  far,  so  far,  an4 
no  farther,  no  farther.  I  can  see  no  farther,  no  farther — I 
1  you  have  confused  me,  sir.  I  wish  you  would  depart*" 


Tlie  Lunatic  Asylum.  139 

He  arose  to  his  utmost  height,  and  frowned. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  son.    I  will  see  you  soon  again." 

"  Well,  well,  well ;  good  by  !  Come  alone.  Good  by  !"  He 
looked  scowlingly  on  Spiffard  ;  and  as  his  visiters  withdrew, 
resumed  his  seat.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  door,  until  it 
closed  after  them. 

Mr.  Littlejohn  was  sometime  silent  as  they  descended  the 
stairs,  and  his  companion  felt  no  disposition  to  intrude  upon 
his  thoughts.  At  length  the  afflicted  father  exclaimed — "  It  is 
awful  to  witness  the  aberration  of  intellect ;  but  cheering  to  see 
that  reason  is  making  advances  to  her  throne." 

"  It  is  a  blessed  hope.     You  see  amendment,  sir  ?" 

"I  do." 

The  worthy  physician  of  the  institution  now  met  them,  and 
confirmed  the  father's  hopes.  It  happened  that  the  committee 
of  directors  who,  in  turn,  visited  the  institution,  to  see  that  the 
benevolent  intentions  of  the  founders  were  duly  carried  into 
effect,  at  this  moment  arrived  ;  and  the  physician  politely  in 
vited  Mr.  Littlejohn  and  his  companion,  to  join  them  in  their 
progress  through  the  various  departments.  The  merchant  was 
but  too  well  acquainted  with  every  thing  relative  to  the  place  ; 
but  to  Spiffard  all  was  new,  and  intensely  interesting. 

Their  first  visit  was  paid  to  that  part  of  the  building  which  is 
assigned  to  the  most  outrageous,  or  the  most  hopeless  cases  of 
insanity.  Spiffard  here  found  a  few  whose  deranged  intellects 
and  enfeebled  bodies  were  the  consequences  of  intemperance  ; 
and  these  were  of  course  the  most  attractive  subjects  of  his 
curiosity.  The  physician  told  him  that  in  the  apartments  ap 
propriated  to  convalescents,  more  of  this  class  were  to  be  found ; 
for  generally,  when  debarred  this  fatal  indulgence,  (the  unnatu 
ral  cause  of  their  malady,)  health  and  reason  were  restored. 

How  interesting !  how  humiliating  !  is  the  spectacle  which 
a  mad-house  presents.  Our  fellow-creatures,  in  form  like  our 
selves,  deprived  of  the  portion  of  man  which  distinguishes  him 
from  the  brute  creation.  The  senses,  those  inlets  of  ideas  to 
the  mind,  so  diseased  or  perverted  as  to  give  false  impressions  ; 
or  the  mental  faculty  itself  so  disordered,  as  to  combine  all  im 
pressions  and  recollections  erroneously.  The  varied  forms  and 
degrees  of  the  malady ;  its  suspended  operation  and  renewed 
action  ;  its  various  causes,  and  the  varied  effect  of  those  causes  ; 
what  constitution  of  body,  what  mode  of  life,  most  tends  to  pro 
duce  mental  alienation :  what  subjects  are  these  for  inquiry ! 
All  these  and  their  remedies  were  familiar  to  the  urbane  physi 
cian  who  accompanied  the  visiters,  and  who  was  accosted  bj 


140  The  Lunatic  Asylum. 

the  patients  in  a  manner  that  proved  their  confidence  in  his  hu 
manity,  and  reliance  upon  his  skill.  He  appeared  among  them 
as  an  acknowledged  friend.  Have  we,  when  deprived  of  rea 
son,  an  instinct  that  acknowledges  worth  1 

Yells,  more  dreadful  than  ever  struck  the  ear  of  traveller  in 
desert  or  wilderness,  from  wolf  or  hyena  ;  sounds  more  heart 
rending,  because,  though  not  resembling  any  thing  human,  they 
were  known  to  proceed  from  human  organs  ;  shrieks,  unlike 
the  cries  of  man  or  woman,  were  heard  from  one  of  the  apart 
ments,  and  a  keeper,  at  the  bidding  of  the  superior,  unlocked 
the  door.  The  naked  wretch  within  ceased  his  yells,  turned 
his  eyes  on  the  intruders,  then  quickly  averted  them,  and  pulled 
the  straw  on  which  he  lay  partly  over  his  body,  covering  his 
nakedness,  as  if  conscious  of  his  degraded  condition. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  the  physician  addressed  him  as  if 
speaking  to  one  possessed  of  reason,  and  kindly  inquired, 
'*  How  do  you  feel  to-day,  Burford  ?" 

"  Better,  better,"  was  the  answer. 

*'  If  you  will  keep  your  clothes  on,  you  may  come  out  to 
morrow." 

The  spectators  turned  away.  The  door  was  locked  and  the 
most  heart-piercing  yells  succeeded  instantly  on  turning  the  key. 

"  During  these  paroxysms,  he  will  neither  suffer  bed,  bed 
clothes,  or  clothing  to  touch  him,  but  rends  every  thing  to 
pieces." 

44  Such  are  the  changes  in  this  unhappy  young  man's  dis 
ease,"  remarked  Mr.  Littlejohn,  "  that  a  few  days  past  I  saw 
and  conversed  with  him  in  the  visiters'  parlour,  quietly  and 
cheerfully.  I  found  him  there,  well-dressed,  and  looking  in 
health  ;  he  was  in  attendance  upon  a  female  relative,  who  had 
come  to  see  him." 

44  Were  there  no  symptoms  of  derangement  about  him  ?" 
inquired  SphTard. 

44  To  an  observer,  there  were.  His  attentions  to  the  lady 
were  over-done.  But  I  have  seen  an  awkward  youth,  many 
miles  from  a  mad-house,  behave  in  much  the  same  manner. 
Then,  when  excited  by  conversation,  he  began  to  talk  of  pur 
chasing  large  tracts  of  waste  lands,  and  laying  out  towns  in  the 
wilderness  ;  but  that  being  the  common  talk  of  our  country,  I 
should  have  thought  nothing  of  it,  if  I  had  not  heard  it  within 
these  walls.  What  we  know  to  be  madness  here,  passes  else 
where  for  common  sense ;  and  when  we  hear  wisdom  among 
worldlings,  we  say  4  surely  the  man's  mad.'  " 

Although  this  gallery,  and  its  suite  of  neat,  airy,  and  com- 


The  Lunatic  Asylum.  141 

fortable  apartments,  was  but  too  well  filled  with  the  most  un 
governable  patients  of  the  institution,  there  was  but  one  other 
who  appeared  to  be  under  restraint.  This  was  a  man  of  mid 
dle  age,  and  vulgar  appearance.  He  had  the  liberty  of  the 
gallery  in  common  with  others  ;  but  hisearrns  were  secured  by 
a  leathern  belt,  passed  around  his  body,  which  left  the  hands 
only  a  partial  and  circumscribed  liherty.  This  person  appeared 
ashamed  of  the  addition  to  his  equipage,  and  followed  the 
doctor  with  importunities,  uttered  in  whispers. 

"  When  you  are  better  your  arms  shall  be  liberated.  You 
know  that  you  attempted  to  strike  your  friend.  You  will  soon 
be  well,  and  then  you  will  go  home." 

*•  I  am  very  well,  very  well."  But  he  averted  his  eyes  from 
the  steadfast  examination  of  the  physician,  and  silently  turned 
away. 

A  few  of  the  inmates  of  this  hall  or  gallery,  were  silent,  de 
jected,  melancholy.  One  was  sunk  into  perfect  idiocy,  a  more 
hopeless  state,  a  more  humiliating  spectacle  to  the  sane,  than 
even  the  raving  maniac.  Generally,  the  patients  were  lively 
and  talkative.  A  genteel  appearing  man  addressed  SpifFard  ; 
and  with  a  manner  little  denoting  insanity,  requested  him  to 
note  the  physiognomy  of  a  person  at  a  little  distance  from  them. 
SpifFard,  who  was  deceived  by  the  manner  and  appearance  of 
the  lunatic,  and  thought  him  either  a  visiter,  like  himself,  or 
perhaps,  an  assistant  to  the  physician,  followed  where  he  led. 
•'  You  will  say  he  has  the  finest  face  in  the  world,  and  a  head 
like  an  antique  statue." 

They  stopt  before  a  figure  who  stood  to  be  gazed  at,  with  an 
unmeaning  smile ;  and  whose  countenance,  head,  or  person, 
had  neither  expression,  form,  nor  proportion,  but  of  the  most 
ordinary  description. 

'*  Behold  that  face  ;  what  a  contour !  what  symmetry  ! 
there's  a  head  of  intellectual  indications!"  and  the  sprightly 
iunatic  placed  his  hand  on  the  head  of  his  silent  brother  ;  treat 
ing  it  as  familiarly  as  a  phrenologist  does  a  skull  or  a  block, 
submitted  to  his  fingers.  "  He's  an  Indian  to  be  sure,  or  a 
half-breed,  but  Greece  nor  Rome  never  produced  such  a  fore 
head  :"  putting  back  the  coarse  black  hair  of  the  tall,  swarthy, 
stupidly-passive  subject.  "  There's  a  face  !  It  is  more  than 
human  !  The  countenance  of  a  god,  rather  than  of  a  man  !" 
SpifFard  had,  befere  this,  perceived  his  mistake,  and  notwith 
standing  the  morbid  melancholy  which  all  appearance  of  intel 
lectual  aberration  caused  in  him,  he  could  not  but  smile,  as  he 
bowed  assent,  and  hastened  to  join  his  companions.  He  soon 


142  The  Lunatic  Asylum. 

after  saw  this  lively  admirer  of  beauty  showing  a  small  japaned 
tin  box  to  the  visiters,  and  expatiating  upon  the  form,  brilli 
ancy,  and  immense  value  of  a  collection  of  pebbles,  which  it 
contained.  "  Jewels  of  the  first  water." 

Perhaps  the  most  extraordinary  character  in  this  portion  of 
the  building,  was  an  insane  man,  who  had  been  tried  for  mur 
der,  and  found  guilty  ;  but  as  insanity  as  well  as  murder  had 
been  proved  by  the  trial,  he  wras  sentenced  to  perpetual  con 
finement,  instead  of  the  mosaic  penalty  which  still  holds  a 
place  in  modern  codes  of  justice.  This  person  appeared  to  be 
about  fifty  years  of  age,  and  was  indulged  in  the  whim  of  wear 
ing  his  beard  uncut,  which  floated  in  waves  of  iron-grey  over 
his  breast.  His  scanty  hair  corresponded  in  hue,  but  was 
trimmed  short.  His  figure  was  athletic,  of  moderate  height, 
and  his  dress  a  grey  suit  of  coarse  texture,  furnished  by  the 
institution,  well  suited  to  his  condition,  but  by  no  means  cor 
responding  with  the  oriental  condition  of  his  beard.  He  ap 
peared  to  recognize  the  directors,  and  to  be  pleased  by  their 
salutations.  He  answered  some  ordinary  questions  rationally, 
but  soon  commenced  talking  with  a  volubility,  rapidity,  and 
wildness,  that  were  astonishing  to  Spiffard. 

The  wretched  man  we  have  attempted  to  describe,  imagined 
himself  to  be  gifted  with  power  more  than  human  ;  and  to  be 
likewise  one  of  the  crowned  and  anointed  rulers  over  the  earth. 
He  consequently  appeared  to  delight  in  the  destruction  of  life. 
But,  unlike  his  brethren  of  the  sceptre,  he  made  no  pretence  of 
shedding  blood  for  the  sake  of  religion,  peace,  mercy,  charity, 
or  even  honour  ;  he  seemed  content  to  have  it  thought  that  he 
destroyed,  to  show  his  power  to  destroy.  A  murderer,  he  was, 
like  other  sanctioned  murderers,  inclined  to  talk  of  death  in 
flicted,  and  atrocities  committed  by  his  orders  ;  although  he  di 
not  pretend  that  his  murders  were  perpetrated  for  the  good  of 
the  human  race. 

One  of  the  visiting  directors  asked  if  he  would  be  glad  to  see 
the  governor. 

"  No.     He  is  my  enemy  ;  and  you  are  my  enemy." 
"Would  you  know  him,  if  he  should  be  present?" 
*'  How  should  I  know  him,  when  I  never  saw  him  ?" 
"  Is  this  gentleman  the  governor  ?"  pointing  to  Spififard. 
"  No.      How  do  you  do,  sir  ?"  shaking  hands  with   the 
comedian,  without  any  assumption  of  regal  dignity ;    or,  as 
appeared  by  his  subsequent  words,  without  having  the  idea  of 
his  royal  worth  suggested,  until  that  of  blood  had  preceded  it. 
"  Do  you  live  in  New-York  ?" 


The  Lunatic  Asylum.  143 

"  Yes." 

"  You  have  but  just  come  here.     Are  you  mad  ?" 

"  Not  more  than  most  folks." 

44  That's  what  most  people  think.  I  like  your  looks.  But. 
you  are  mad.  You  do  not  know  me  ;  but  I  have  a  power 
which  enables  me  to  see  ;  a  power — you  must  have  heard  that 
a  man  was  shot  at  Claverick  yesterday.  I  shot  him.  I  killed 
that  man.  My  orders  are  obeyed  promptly — on  the  instant.  I 
say  shoot  that  man,  and  it  is  done.  They  fire  when  I  give  the 
word  of  command,  as  a  regiment  obeys  the  order  of  its  colonel. 
I  say  it,  and  they  are  dead.  When  the  powder-mill  blew  up  in 
Rhode-Island,  and  all  the  workmen  were  torn  to  pieces,  scat 
tered  limb  from  limb,  tossed  in  the  clouds  and  smoke,  mangled 
by  the  beams  and  rafters,  I  did  it!  Talk  of  power!  There's 
the  Emperor  of  China,  and  the  Emperor  of  Russia.  Talk  of 
holy  alliance !  There's  an  alliance  more  than  holy.  The  Em 
peror  of  Morocco's  sister  is  to  be  married  to  the  Emperor  of 
Austria,  and  the  Autocrat  of  all  the  Russias,  whose  present 
wife,  you  know,  is  sister  to  the  Grand  Turk — but  the  pope  will 
absolve  Prince  Metternich,  and  then " 

His  "  bald,  disjointed"  talk,  became  each  moment  more  in 
coherent;  but  occasionally  reverted  to  his  own  destructive 
power,  and  his  delight  in  human  misery ;  always  connecting 
these  with  his  kingly  condition,  which,  very  naturally,  sanc 
tioned  his  desires.  He  was,  in  fancy,  an  Emperor  ;  and  doubt 
less,  as  such,  an  appointed  scourge  of  the  human  race.  Yet 
his  imperial  majesty  very  submissively  filled  the  station  of 
scullion  in  the  kitchen  of  the  hospital ;  and  while  his  will  dealt 
destruction  as  a  king  or  an  autocrat,  his  hands  very  mechani 
cally  washed  dishes. 

After  an  examination  of  the  comforts  which  enlightened 
benevolence  bestows  upon  the  afflicted,  the  visitors  were  con 
ducted  to  an  open  place,  or  enclosure,  where,  the  day  being 
fine,  the  convalescent  or  tractable  patients,  took  exercise. 
Some  were  amusing  themselves,  or  basking  in  the  rays  of  the 
sun.  Some  walking  or  lounging  under  a  long  shed,  or  covered 
way,  erected  for  their  accommodation.  They  had  all  dined, 
for  the  insane  dine  at  mid-day,  the  reasoning  and  refined 
at  night. 

A  young  gentleman  was  walking  under  the  shed,  and  intently 
engaged  with  a  book.  One  of  the  directors  asked,  "  What 
are  you  reading?" 

"  Freneau's  poems.     There  is  much  good  in  them." 


144  The  Lunatic  Asylttm* 

"  Poor  Phillip !  He  is  almost  forgotten,  like  some  other  of 
our  literary  pioneers,"  said  the  director. 

"  Sir,  he  deserves  better  of  Americans,"  was  the  reply. 

This  patient  entered  freely  into  conversation,  in  a  connected, 
but  rather  hurried  manner.  He  appeared  cheerful,  inquiring 
after  friends  in  the  city,  but  did  not  appear  to  regret  his  con 
finement,  though  he  indirectly  alluded  to  it.  The  director,  to 
whom  he  spoke  to  as  a  friend,  he  was  well  acquainted  with, 
asking  him  if  he  was  not  coming  to  town. 

"  No." 

"  Mrs.  Tourberville  and  her  daughters  often  inquire  after 
you." 

"Do  they  live  in  Pearl-street  still  1" 

"  In  the  same  place.   One  of  the  daughters  is  lately  married." 

*'  Which  ?"  He  was  told,  smiled,  and  resumed  his  reading 
and  walking,  as  one  content  with  his  condition. 

Several  of  the  patients  importuned  the  physician  for  permis 
sion  to  go  home  ;  assuring  him  that  they  were  perfectly  well. 
He,  with  great  address  and  amenity,  evaded  their  re  quests,  and 
they  gave  up  the  point,  seemingly  impressed  with  the  idea  of 
complete  restraint  upon  their  will.  One  man  very  sportively 
invited  each  person  wrho  approached  him  to  play  at  tossing 
coppers  or  cents. 

"  Come  doctor !  head  or  tail?     I  want  to  win  some  silver.'* 

"  What  do  you  want  with  silver?" 

"  To  buy  cigars." 

"  There  are  none  to  be  bought  here." 

"I'll  toss,  heads  or  tails  for  a  box,  and  send  to  town  for 
them.  Here  goes  !  I  cry  head,  no,  tail.  I've  won,  I've  won  I" 

"  You  must  win  if  you  take  both  sides." 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha!  well  said.  But  I'm  staunch  for  Jefferson ! 
'No  Jay's  treaty  for  me." 

The  doctor  told  Spiffard  that  electioneering  and  drinking,  so 
fatally  common  at  the  houses  in  which  the  polls  were  held,  had 
brought  this  person  to  the  state  in  which  he  saw  him.  This 
touched  our  hero's  sympathetic  string,  and  he  eagerly  inquired 
into  his  case,  and  the  probabilities  of  cure." 

"  He  is  recovering ;  and  if  he  refrains  from  ardent  spirits 
after  his  return  home,  as  he  is  obliged  to  do  here,  he  will  be 
again  a  sane  and  useful  citizen."  They  left  him  shouting, 
**  Jefferson  forever!  Ten  to  one  on  our  candidate." 

Returned  to  the  house,  they  passed  through  several  galle 
ries,  looked  in  upon  the  convenient  and  airy  sleeping  apart 
ments,  and  visited  a  room  where  there  was  a  small  library. 


The  Lmatic  Asylum.  145 

At  a  table  several  of  the  inmates  were  reading.  One  was 
writing.  His  letter  he  willingly  exhibited,  requesting  that  it 
might  be  put  in  the  post  office.  It  was  filled  with  offers  to 
purchase  vast  tracts  of  soil,  and  addressed  to  a  well  known 
land-speculator,  who  had  rested  upon  a  very  small  territory  in 
the  church-yard  some  years  before.  This  patient  had  lost 
both  fortune  and  reason  in  schemes,  which  still  with  delusive 
hope  bewildered  him. 

"Without  the  aid  of  alcohol?"  asked  Spiffard. 
"  Yes.     Cupidity — the  inordinate  desire  to  possess,  is  suf 
ficient  of  itself  to  turn  the  brain — and  the  madness  is  incura 
ble." 

Among  these  patients,  Spiffard  recognised  a  man  of  the 
name  of  Knox,  whose  insanity  had  been  produced  by  extreme 
intemperance.  He  was  subject  to  outbreakings  even  here, 
although  debarred  from  alcohol  in  any  shape.  He  was  at  this 
time  calm  and  appeared  well;  indeed  much  better  than  when 
he  was  at  liberty,  and  engaged  at  the  theatre,  (for  he  was  an 
English  actor,)  where  he  was  seldom  free  from  the  tyranny  of 
the  appetite  he  served.  His  great  desire  was  to  obtain  his 
discharge.  This  is  the  same  person  of  whom  it  is  recorded 
in  Cooke's  memoirs,  that  being  as  usual  imperfect  in  his  part, 
and  playing  Gloster  to  Cooke's  Lear,  when  he  uttered  the 
words  "  Ye  gods,  give  Gloster  his  discharge  ;"  the  old  tra 
gedian  said  in  an  under  tone,  "wait  till  Saturday,  and  the  man 
ager  will  give  you  your  discharge,  you  black-guard."  He  was 
discharged  ;  and  Cooke  in  pity  for  a  time  supported  him. 

Their  last  visit  was  to  the  gallery,  and  to  its  adjoining  apart 
ments,  appropriated  to  the  female  patients.  As  they  approach 
ed,  a  confused,  but  not  discordant,  sound  of  many  voices  was 
heard.  Loud  but  cheerful  and  silver  tones,  mingled  with 
playful  laughter.  As  the  attendant  opened  the  door  of  the 
gallery  while  the  inmates,  (owing  to  their  own  merriment,) 
were  unconscious  of  the  approach  of  intruders,  several  of  the 
ladies  were  surprised  in  the  midst  of  their  unrestrained,  infan 
tile  playfulness.  The  mask  was  off.  For  the  insane  carry 
the  social  mask  even  into  the  madhouse. 

One  lady — for  such  her  dress  and  manners  spoke  her — was 
sitting  on  the  floor,  as  if  at  a  game  of  romps  with  her  compan 
ions  who  stood  laughing  near.  On  the  entrance  of  the  visit- 
ers,  she  jumped  up — smiled — blushed — and  as  though 
ashamed  of  being  caught  romping,  ran  into  a  side  apartment  : 
she  soon  however  returned,  and  addressing  Littlejohn  by  the 
appellation  of"  Grand-papa,"  asked  him  to  take  a  walk'with 


146  The  Lunatic  Asylum. 

her,  at  the  same  time  placing  her  arm  within  his.  Before  he 
could  answer,  one  of  her  companions  cried  "  Fy,  fy !  Mary 
Ann,"  and  the  playful  challenger  looking  at  the  doctor,  who 
shook  his  head,  withdrew  her  white  and  slender  arm,  laughed, 
and  again  vanished. 

One  of  these  apartments  was  devoted  to  female  occupation 
of  a  graver  kind  ;  reading  and  needle-work  ;  and  several  well 
dressed  women  were  happily  employed,  patients  and  their  at 
tendants,  in  orderly  work  and  cheerful  conversation. 

On  the  return  of  the  visitors  from  this  quiet  scene,  some 
objects  presented  themselves  that  were  more  or  less  distress 
ing  to  their  feelings.  A  very  pretty,  delicately  formed  and 
tastefully  dressed  lady,  who  had  been  conversing  with  one  of 
the  visiting  committee,  approached  gracefully  to  Spiffard,  and 
accosted  him. 

"  I  am  told  sir,  that  you  are  the  celebrated  actor,  Mr.  Spif 
fard." 

44  Spiffard  is  my  name,  madam." 

44  You  don't  look  like  an  actor." 

44  How  so,  madam  1" 

44 1  hardly  know.     I  thought  you  were  old." 

44  Actors  assume  all  ages — take  all  shapes." 

44  So  do  all  men.  But  you  look  very  serious  as  well  as 
very  young.  I  declare  I  should  almost  think  you  had  been 
crying,  and  that  I  saw  tears  still  in  your  eyes." 

Such  had  been  and  was  the  fact,  although  unobserved  by 
Spiffard's  sane  companions.  He  smiled  and  said,  "  I  am 
a  poor  actor,  madam." 

'4  Don't  say  so :  I  have  heard  of  you.  Do  you  think  I 
should  make  a  figure  on  the  stage  ?r) 

44  A  most  interesting  one." 

•4  Pshaw  !  I  don't  mean  so — but  you  men  are  ever  ready 
to  flatter.  But  I  do  think  I  could  play  Ophelia.  4  There's 
rue  for  you' — O,  no  !  not  for  you — for  you,  naughty  man," 
and  she  turned  playfully  to  the  doctor.  t4  You  are  the  king, 
you  know." 

44  But  not  a  murderer." 

44  I  don't  know  that."  Then  addressing  SpirTard  again  she 
added  44  Ophelia  must  be  played  by  a  singer  and  I  can  sinjj,'r 
and  with  wild  and  sweet  expression,  and  a  voice  such  as  Mrs. 
Merry  possessed,  she  sung 

"  He  is  dead  ami  gone,  lady, 
He  is  dead  and  gone; 
At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf, 

Ai  Lu*  keel*  a  »uuu.'': 


The  Lunatic  Asylum.  147 

But  I  won't  sing  if  it  makes  you  sad.     I  thought  actors  were 
always  merry." 

Spiftard  turned  away  to  hide  his  emotion  ;  and  the  physician 
led  the  songstress  off,  whispering  in  her  ear,  "  You  see  it  makes 
him  weep." 

Their  inspection  of  this  noble  building  terminated  with  a 
view  from  the  roof,  which  presented  one  of  the  most  magnifi 
cent  panoramic  pictures  the  eye  of  man  is  ever  permitted  to 
behold.  Cheerful,  thriving  villages,  fields  rich  in  culture,  roads 
thronged  with  carriages,  cities,  and  their  glittering  pinacles,  only 
divided  from  each  other  by  the  waters  and  ships  that  enriched 
them.  The  greater  of  these  cities,  like  the  proud  mistress  of 
the  east,  projects  a  garden,  (unpolluted  by  the  crimes  of  a  serag 
lio,)  into  her  own  Bosphorus  and  Marmora  ;  and  receives  in 
her  golden  horn,  the  flags  and  the  wealth  of  every  land  and 
sea,  while  she  smiles  on  a  Galata  and  Pera,  where  the  same 
laws  and  interests  prevail  among  the  same  free  and  happy  peo 
ple.  From  these  sublime  prospects,  our  friends  descended, 
to  be  reminded  of  what  immediately  surrounded  them,  and  of 
their  own  personal  and  physical  wants. 

By  invitation,  Mr.  Littlejohn  and  his  companion  partook  of 
the  dinner  provided  for  the  visiting  committee.  Spiftard  re 
marked  that  the  philanthropic  physician  had,  previous  to  taking 
his  place  at  the  board,  employed  himself  in  persuading  a  gen 
tleman,  who  paced  up  and  down  the  hall,  to  join  the  company, 
He  succeeded  in  placing  the  melancholy  man  at  the  table,  and 
induced  him  to  eat,  and  even  to  take  one  glass  of  wine ;  for 
wine  wras  not  banished  from  the  temperate  board  of  the  asylum  ; 
neither  was  it  evrer  abused. 

This  person,  who  now  attracted  SpifTard's  special  attention, 
was  a  patient  whose  malady  permitted  that  he  should  have  the 
freedom  of  the  house  and  garden.  After  dinner,  Spiftard  learned 
that  this  gentleman's  insanity  is  what  is  called  a  religious  mad 
ness  !  He  had  been  a  merchant — became  a  preacher — and 
finally,  under  the  oppression  of  bodily  disease,  carne  to  the 
maniacal  conclusion,  that  he  was  selected  from  all  mankind  to 
suffer  a  state  of  hopeless  reprobation  ;  that  no  redemption 
availed,  nor  repentance  could  save  him. 

While  talking  with  his  informant,  the  unhappy  gentleman 
approached,  and  Spiftard  had  an  opportunity  of  hearing  him  on 
the  subject  of  his  misery. 

"  You  are  better,  Mr.  Treffil,  for  joining  us,  and  taking  a 
glass  of  wine." 


148  The  Lunatic 

"  Yes  ;  for  an  instant.  But  the  sense  of  my  condition  re 
turns  with  redoubled  force  the  next  moment." 

"  Sir,  instead  of  avoiding  cheerful  company,  you  must  seek 
it.  You  are  labouring  under  a  mistake ;  and  when  restored  to 
bodily  health,  you  will  be  convinced  of  the  falacy  of  these  tot*- 
menting  phantasies." 

The  sufferer  shook  his  head.  "  It  is  vain  for  me  to  fell  ymi 
of  the  communications  I  have  had  with  the  world  of  spirits.  I 
know  you  cannot  conceive  of  them,  or  believe  me.  My  doosn 
is  fixed  irretrievably." 

"  God  is  good  beyond  our  conception,  and  infinitely  mer 
ciful." 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say  ;  I  have,  myself,  talked  thus 
to  others.  To  others  the  words  may  apply.  I  have  heard 
reasons  for  my  condemnation  that  are  incontrovertible.  My 
sins  are  unpardonable.  I  know  that  there  is  no  hope  for  me. 
I  have  heard  it  proclaimed  to  all  the  worlds  of  the  universe.  I 
have  been  transported  from  planet  to  planet  bodily.  I  know 
that  you  do  not  believe  it.  From  star  to  star,  through  the 
immensity  of  space,  filled  with — .  What  I  have  seen  and 
heard,  I  am  forbid  to  tell." 

"  Before  SpifFard  and  his  friend  left  the  asylum,  the  latte^ 
paid  another  visit  to  his  son.  He  went  unaccompanied.  On 
his  re-appearance,  SpifFard  asked,  "  How  did  you  find  him 
sir?" 

"  In  tears.  He  seemed  to  be  conscious  that  his  former  re 
ception  of  me  had  been  harsh.  He  took  my  hand,  and  ten 
derly  pressed  it  at  my  departure,  begging  me  to  see  him  soon.'* 

As  the  evening  approached,  our  pedestrians,  notwithstanding 
kind  invitations  to  ride,  returned  as  they  came,  on  foot ;  musing; 
and  conversing  on  the  scenes  they  had  witnessed,  thia  b€«sg; 
to  SpiiTard,  a  most  instructive  day. 


149 

CHAPTER  XYII. 

The  result  of  intemperance,  and  a  sick  chamber. 

"  Show  not  thy  valiantness  in  wine,  for  wine  hath  destroyed  many. — EC- 
clesiasticus. 

"  Is  man  no  more  than  this?" 

"They  are  as  sick  that  surfeit  with  too  much,  as  they  that  slave  with 
nothing." — Shakspeare. 

"  Honour  a  physician  with  the  honours  due  unto  him,  for  the  uses  which 
ye  may  have  of  him." — Ecclcsiasticns. 

" '  Bardolph. — Why,  sir,  for  my  part,  I  say  the  gentleman  had  drunk  him- 
celf  out  of  his  five  sentences.'  " 

"  '  Slender. — I'll  ne'er  be  drunk  whilst  I  live  again,  but  in  honest,  civil, 
godly  company.'  " — Shaksptare. 

"A  wise  sentence  shall  be  rejected  when  it  comes  out  of  a  fool's  mouth, 
for  he  will  not  speak  it  in  due  season." — Ecclesiasticus. 

11 1  would  rather  have  a  fool  to  make  me  merry,  than  experience  to  make 
me  sad." 

"  Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie. 

"  Cease  to  lament  for  thatthou  canst  not  help  ; 
And  study  help  for  that  which  thoulamcntest." — Shakspeare. 

WE  will  now  return  to  George  Frederick  Cooke.  Among 
the  many  who  have  placed  themselves  aloft,  as  beacons  on  the 
hill-top,  to  warn  mankind  of  the  evils  that  threaten  them  ;  or  who 
serve  as  buoys,  to  mark  the  hidden  rocks  and  sands,  where  the 
gallant  argosei  of  life,  (freighted  with  youth  and  health,  and  all 
the  ingredients  of  happiness,  and  onward  borne,  her  bellying 
sails  filled  with  the  gales  of  hope,)  must  sink  if  not  avoided: 
among  these  warnings,  buoys,  and  beacons,  few  have  been 
more  conspicuous  than  this  highly-gifted  man. 

While  Spiffard  and  Littlejohn  pursued  their  walk  from 
Cato's,  as  we  have  seen,  Cooke,  under  the  care  of  one  of  the 
younger  revellers,  who  was  either  more  prudent  or  more  hard- 
headed  than  his  companions,  returned  to  town  in  a  hack  coach, 
which  had  been  in  attendance  on  the  party.  The  young  man, 
who  although  but  too  conversant  with  scenes  of  dissipation,  had 
never  been  confined  with  such  a  companion,  was  occasionally 

VOL.    I.  10 


150      The  residt  of  intemperance,  and  a  sick  chamber. 

amused  by  his  extravagance,  shocked  at  his  profane  vulgarity, 
and  puzzled  by  his  loud  demands  to  be  set  down,  and  orders 
to  the  coachman  to  stop. 

It  seemed  as  if  every  vile  image  or  word  which  had  been 
presented  to  the  eye  or  ear  of  the  unhappy  man  during  a  long 
life,  (a  life  partly  passed  among  the  licentious  and  frequently 
among  the  vilest  of  the  vile)  were  called  into  existence  and 
action  by  the  demon  who  possessed  him.  The  young  man 
tired  out  by  insolent  repetitions,  finally  thought  of  governing 
by  force,  or  at  least  threats.  He  had  fallen  on  the  remedy. 
For  the  tragic  hero  was  never  so  far  lost  as  to  forget  what  was 
due  to  self-preservation  when  danger  appeared.  He  could 
distinguish  real  from  mock  threatenings  ;  and  although  he 
braved,  as  in  the  recent  duel,  the  one,  he  shrunk  from  the 
other  "upon  instinct." 

Tedious  the  ride  to  the  young  man,  ere  they  arrived  at  the 
Tontine  Coffee  House  :  but  arrive  they  did,  and  found  Trust 
worthy  Davenport  ready  to  receive  the  man  he  faithfully  serv 
ed,  and  even  deigned  to  call  master.  Cooke,  who  had  been  for 
some  time  in  a  quiescent  state,  was  roused  by  the  stopping  of 
the  carnage  and  the  ceasing  of  the  rumbling  noise  which 
seemed  to  soothe  him.  He  now  vociferated  his  orders  to  the 
coachman  to  drive  on,  as  loudly  as  he  before  commanded  him 
to  stop.  His  young  companion  gladly  made  his  escape,  re 
signing  his  charge  to  Trusty,  who,  presenting  himself  at  th« 
coach-door,  solicited  his  patron  to  take  his  arm  and  alight. 

"  Coachman  !  Drive  on  !  Stand  out  of  the  way  and  shut 
the  door,  you  thrice  three  times  elongated  yankee  son  of  a  pu 
ritan  praise-god-bare-bones  !  Coachman !  Drive  on  !  " 

"  This  coachman  says  he  can  go  no  further,  but  I'll  find  a 
carriage  for  you  in  a  jiffy,  or  I'll  be  swampt.  Where  shall  I 
order  your  carrier  to  go?" 

44  To  church,  sirr !     To  church  !" 

'*  Jist  git  out  of  this  coach,  sir,  and  I'll  see  that  you  go, 
where  you  ought  to  go — where  you  want  to  go — I  mean — so, 
sir,  softly  !" 

The  "  yankee  traveller"  needed  not  to  have  changed  his 
phraseology,  for  his  patron  was  incapable  of  making  nice  dis 
tinctions.  "  He  made  an  effort  to  leave  the  carriage,  but  fell 
headlong  into  the  grasp  of  his  long-limbed  valet,  who  in  less 
than  five  minutes  deposited  him  in  the  easy-chair  by  his  bed 
side. 

Nature,  abused,  and  struggling  against  the  abuse,  notwith 
standing  uncommon  physical  powers,  at  length  gave  way.  A 


The  result  of  intemperance,  and  a  sick  chamber.       151 

helpless,  senseless  mass,  the  admired  of  thousands,  was  depos 
ited  in  that  bed  where  he  could  only  awake  to  regrets  for  the 
past,  loathings  of  the  present,  and  dread  of  the  future. 

Before  morning,  Davenport,  who  slumbered  in  the  chair  by 
the  bedside,  was  awakened  by  the  groans  of  the  tortured  man. 
He  found  him  almost  suffocated.  By  changing  his  position 
he  saved  him  from  immediate  death,  and  then  hastened  for  one 
of  his  physicians.  The  nearest  of  the  many  who  gladly  en 
deavoured  to  prolong  the  .life  of  this  infatuated  man,  was  doc 
tor  McLean  ;  and  happily  he  was  brought  in  time  to  afford 
relief. 

Such  was  the  termination  of  the  excesses  at  Cato's — or  ra 
ther  of  that  series  of  excesses,  which  had  been  rising  from 
stage  to  stage,  until  the  fabric  which  supported  them  broke 
down.  With  some  constitutions  this  termination  is  a  hopeless 
state  of  despair,  madness  and  death.  With  Cooke  it  brought 
on  severe  pains,  difficulty  of  breathing,  which  if  relieved  bjr 
blood-letting,  left  him  a  miserable  penitent  as  long  as  weak 
ness  and  sickness  continued — and  no  longer. 

The  symptoms  which  at  this  time  marked  his  disease  were 
the  same  that  ultimately  in  a  more  aggravated  form,  preceded 
immediate  dissolution.  Two  of  the  best  physicians  of  the 
city  attended  him  ;  and  although  restored  to  comparative  ease, 
he  was  confined  to  his  bed  for  several  days. 

During  this  state  of  pain  and  s  )ber  reflection,  he  was  attend 
ed  by  Spiffard  with  the  assiduity  of  an  affectionate  son.  Oc 
casionally  he  brought  Mr.  Littlejohn  with  him,  at  that  gentle 
man's  request,  and  when  the  tragedian  was  sufficiently  re 
covered  to  converse,  both  his  guests  were  delighted  with  his 
stores  of  anecdote,  sketches  of  character,  and  sallies  of  hu 
mour. 

One  day  that  Cooke  and  SpifTard  were  alone,  the  old  man 
expressed  his  desire  to  know  by  what  train  of  extraordinary 
circumstances  his  young  yankee  friend  had  become  a  member 
— and  a  distinguished  member  of  the  profession  to  which  he 
had  devoted  his  own  extraordinary  powers. 

"  You  are  the  strangest  young  man  that  ever  I  met  with — 
young  man  ? — young  or  old,  you  are  unlike  any  thing  that 
ever  fell  in  my  way.  You  tell  me  that  you  are  a  yankee  from 
Vermont,  yet  you  are  a  finished  English  actor,  fit  for  Drury  or 
Covent  Garden.  You  are  a  very  young  man,  yet  you  attach 
yourself  to  an  old  worn  out  fellow  like  me  :  you  are  a  tea-sot 
and  a  water-drinker,  yet  you  delight  in  the  company  of  a  vet 
eran — known — proclaimed — shameless  votary  of  the  bottle! 


152       The  result  of  intemperance,  and  a  sick  chamber. 

Why  is  this  1  Come  tell  me  what  induced  you  to  try  the  pro 
fession  you  have  chosen — how  you  obtained  your  knowledge 
and  skill  in  it,  and  how  you  have  escaped  the  vices  that  hang 
about  it." 

Spiffard  recounted  his  story,  omitting  some  circumstances 
with  which  we  have  made  the  reader  acquainted,  and  dwelling 
upon  many  theatrical  adventures  and  characters  with  anecdotes 
more  interesting  to  an  actor  than  to  any  other  person.  He 
gave  his  reasons  for  embarking  in  an  English  ship  for  Quebec 
rather  than  the  direct  route  and  better  sailors  to  New-York. 
He  had  no  inducement  to  be  in  that  city  until  late  in  the  theat 
rical  season,  as  such  suited  the  manager's  arrangements,  and 
the  desire  to  visit  the  British  provinces  whose  history  is  so  inti 
mately  connected  with  that  of  his  own  country,  caused  him  glad 
ly  to  seize  the  opportunity.  Besides  that,  he  wished  to  linger  on 
the  shores  of  Lake  Champlain,  and  visit  the  Green  Mountain 
spot  where  his  father  had  flourished,  decayed  and  died. 

"  I  will  not  recount,"  he  said,  "  the  events  of  a  passage  across 
the  Atlantic,  though  I  might  speak  of  clouds  and  winds,  and 
dolphins,  and  whales,  and  the  hopes  and  fears  in  meeting  ano 
ther  storm-tossed  bundle  of  planks  and  ropes  on  the  ocean,  and 
all  the  other  pretty  occurrences,  from  the  common-place  book, 
which  occupy  so  many  pages  of  modern  prose  nainby  pamby. 
Three  times  the  number  of  days  were  wasted  on  the  voyage 
that  are  sufficient  to  waft  one  of  our  passenger-packet-ships 
from  Liverpool  to  this  port.  We  escaped  the  hazards  of  the 
gulf,  and  in  November  were  gladdened  by  the  sight  of  the  stu 
pendous  banks  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  that  majestic  stream  pour 
ing  the  waters  of  so  many  inland  seas  into  the  fathomless  ocean. 
As  we  approached  Quebec  and  I  saw  the  towering  battlements 
of  the  upper  town  and  castle,  bristling  with  cannon,  tier  above 
tier,  overhanging  the  houses  and  shipping  which  lay  dim  and 
dark  in  the  shades  of  evening,  while  the  sun  yet  played  on  the 
glittering  spires  and  waving  colours  floating  over  them,  I  felt 
repaid  for  all  the  tedious  hours  I  had  passed  on  the  weary 
weary  sea.  As  I  gazed,  the  eventful  struggles  of  the  brave 
men  who  fought  and  fell  on  this  once  important  spot,  rushed 
upon  my  mind  with  a  pleasing  soul-elevating  melancholy. 
Early  the  next  morning  I  landed,  and  found  my  way  to  the 
plains  of  Abraham.  I  sat  on  the  stone  which  pillowed  the  head 
of  the  dying  conqueror.  I  stood  on  the  spot  where  one  master 
spirit  decided  the  fate  of  the  western  world.  I  thought  of  Wolfe 
and  the  glorious  day  of  his  triumph  and  death.  That  day 
which  broke  the  power  of  despotic  France  in  the  west,  over- 


The  result  of  intemperance,  and  a  sick  chamber.       153 

threw  at  a  blow  her  mighty  plans  of  empire,  and  secured  to  the 
sons  of  English  republicans  the  immense  region  from  the  At 
lantic  to  the  Pacific  oceans, — from  the  north  pole  to  the  table 
land  of  Mexico — a  region  destined  for  the  propagation  of  in 
numerable  free  states,  bound  together  by  the  same  institutions, 
the  same  languages,  the  same  interests — and  a  religious  free 
dom,  as  dear  as  all — which  rejects  the  dogmas  of  any  usurping 
hierarchy.1' 

As  the  young  man  spoke,  his  tone  had  become  elevated,  his 
cheeks  were  flushed,  his  eyes  sparkled,  and  Cooke,  who  had 
raised  himself  in  his  bed,  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was  the 
low  comedian  who  talked  of  states  and  empires  in  terms  so 
lofty,  and  so  little  suited  to  his  usual  style.  Spiffard  observed 
the  veteran's  surprise,  and  said,  "  I  have  ever  been  an  enthusi 
astic  admirer  of  the  institutions  of  my  country,  Mr.  Cooke,  and 
feel  the  attachment  of  a  grateful  heart  to  your  native  land,  from 
which  they  are  partly  derived.  I  am  proud  that  my  forefathers 
sprung  from  England,  that  I  can  claim  part  with  Englishmen  in 
the  glories  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  Locke,  Bacon,  Newton, 
JIampden,  Sydney,  Pym,  and  Vane,  and  hundreds  more,  whose 
minds  have  enlighted  the  world,  and  continue,  to  this  day,  to 
foil  off  the  clouds  with  which  tyranny  and  superstition  would 
envelope  us.  I  am  proud  that  my  ancestors  were  among  the 
puritans  of  New-England,  who  abandoned  their  lovely  country, 
that  they  might  be  free  to  live  as  republicans,  and  worship  their 
Creator  as  their  consciences  dictated  ;  and  I  am  happy  that  my 
.grandfather  served  with  Shirley  at  Louisburg,  and  bled  with 
Wolfe  on  the  plains  of  Abraham,  by  the  side  of  gallant  English 
men,  in  opposition  to  those  powers  who  then,  and  now,  would 
enslave  the  souls  and  bodies  of  mankind." 

"  I  see  you  are  a  thorough  Yankee  ;  and  I  suppose  as  you 
travel  this  way  from  Quebec,  you  will  treat  me  to  a  dissertation 
on  Saratoga  and  Bunker  hill." 

"  No.  The  sympathetic  chord  that  made  Englishmen  and 
Americans  one,  was  severed  before  the  seventeenth  of  June, 
seventeen  hundred  and  seventy-five ;  and  you  are  an  English 
man." 

Cooke  looked  up  with  his  peculiar  side-long  glance,  and 
said,  "  Thank  you,  thank  you  !  Do  you  know  that  I  have  been 
thinking,  while  ycu  were  speaking,  that  if  your  head,  by  any 
chance,  had  been  raised  twelve  inches  higher,  it  might  have 
been  a  head  of  eminence,  and  looked  down  on  little  men  with 
the  frown,  or  the  condescension,  of  a  hero — a  leader  of  senates 
or  armies — at  least  on  the  stage." 


154       The  result  of  intemperance,  and  a  sick  chamber. 

This  touched  a  string  in  our  hero's  composition,  which  totally 
changed,  not  alone  the  current  of  his  ideas,  but  the  very  nature 
of  them. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  replied,  (with  that  simplicity  which  rendered 
him  so  remarkable,  and  so  obnoxious  to  be  played  upon  by 
those  of  inferior  intellect  or  acquirement.)  "  Yes,  sir,  I  have 
thought  that  my  face  might,  with  the  aid  of  histrionic  art,  repre 
sent  a  mimic  hero,  however  unfit  I  may  be  to  lead  real  senates 
or  armies.  My  features  are  as  boldly  marked  as  John  Kem- 
bles  ;  my  nose  as  prominent ;  my  eye  as  capable  of  expressing 
passion.  I  have  as  great  power  over  my  countenance.  I  have 
studied  the  dramatic  authors  as  assiduously,  though  not  for  so 
longatime  as  he  has.  But  because,  according  to  certain  arbitrary 
rules,  it  is  found  that  my  face  is  too  long  for  the  height  of  my 
person,  it  is  concluded  that  I  cannot  rise  to  the  pitch  of  tragic 
dignity  required  for  the  stage,  or  give  effect  to  the  precepts  or 
pathos  of  the  poet." 

*'  Did  you  ever  try  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  was  the  result ;  how  did  the  audience  receive  you  t?> 

"  The  fools  laughed." 

**  Well,  well,  never  mind  ;  punish  them  as  you  have  done 
ever  since,  by  making  them  laugh  whenever  you  show  your  tra 
gic  phiz  on  the  stage  ;  leave  strutting,  roaring,  and  scowling  to 
me  and  black  Jack." 

So  saying,  the  old  man  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow  with  a 
good-humoured  laugh,  in  which  Spiffard  could  not  but  join, 
though  at  his  own  expense." 

"  I  had  got  no  further  in  the  story  of  my  home  ward  travel — " 
Spiffard  recommenced,  and  might  probably  have  given  a  tole 
rably  correct  picture  of  Canadian  manners,  customs,  costumes, 
rivalries,  jealousies,  and  contrasts  ;  and  the  conflicting  interests 
of  a  conquered  province,  where  ignorance  and  superstition  is 
cherished  as  the  precious  reserved  rights  of  the  conquered  ;  but 
at  this  moment  his  rival  traveller  and  actor,  Trustworthy  Daven 
port,  ushered  Dr.  Hosack  into  the  apartment. 

After  the  first  salutations,  the  physician  inquired  if  Cadwal- 
lader,  McLean,  or  Francis,  his  coadjutors  in  the  task  of 
repairing  the  injuries  nature  had  received,  had  visited  the 
patient,  and  then  remarked  that  he  looked  better. 

"  I  always  feel  better,  Doctor,  when  this  tea-sot,  this  water- 
drinker,  is  with  me ;  but  I  am  puzzled  to  know  what  he  can 
find  attractive  in  the  bed-side  conversation  of  an  old  worn-out 
winebibber  like  me." 


The  result  of  intemperance,  and  a  sick  chamber.       155 

u  His  admiration  of  your  talents  as  an  actor,  is  sufficient  to 
account  for  Mr.  SpifTard  preferring  your  company  to  that  of 
men  of  less  experience  and  knowledge." 

"  No,  no,  that's  riot  it.  He  has  seen  Sarah,  and  Black  Jack, 
and  all  the  rest  of  them.  No,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  suspect. 
He  is  studying  the  effect  of  wine  on  the  human  constitution ; 
and  when  he  sees  me  snug  under  the  sod,  he  will  give  lectures 
on  temperance,  making  old  Cooke  the  foundation  on  which  to 
establish  his  theory,  and  build  his  fortune.  But  I'll  cheat  the 
water-drinker  by  out-living  him.  I'll  play  Shylock  at  ninety, 
as  Macklin  did." 

"  May  you  live  to  ninety,  and  I  live  to  see  it!  But  what  says 
the  doctor  to  the  question  of  wine  or  water?" 

44  Pooh,  pooh,  what  signifies  what  he  says.  Look  at  his  face, 
and  then  turn  to  the  mirror  and  look  at  your  own  pale  visage. 
There's  a  complexion  where  madeira — always  meaning  in 
moderation — sparkles — " 

44  Let  me  see  your  tongue." 

44  That's  by  way  of  stopping  its  motion.  As  much  as  to  say, 
*  hold  your  tongue.'  But  a  tongue  is  not  a  member  to  be  looked 
at,  but  listened  to." 

41  Yet  to  the  physician,  even  its  appearance  can  tell  tales. 
There,  that  will  do.  Mr.  Spiffard,  I  must  prohibit  my  patient 
from  further  exertion,  or  even  attention  to  the  conversation  of 
his  friends  to-day.  His  tongue  speaks  of  fever.  Let  me  feel 
your  pulse,  sir.  That  will  do.  Let  me  place  iny  hand — so, 
sir.  Are  your  ankles  swelled  ?" 

The  doctor  proceeded  with  his  examination.  Cooke  was 
silent,  but  appeared  less  concerned  than  either  Spiffard  or  Da 
venport  ;  for  the  last-mentioned  of  our  actors  stood  anxiously 
listening  and  looking  on,  evidently  taking  great  interest  in  the 
fate  of  the  patient. 

44  The  symptoms  are  decided.  There  is  water  in  the  abdo 
men." 

Cooke  turned  his  head  away,  and  cast  a  look  from  the  cor 
ners  of  his  eyes  on  the  physician,  at  the  same  time  holding  his 
face  close  to  the  pillow,  and  repeated  the  word  "  water,"  in  a 
tone  of  surprise. 

44  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  and  was  going  on  seriously  to 
prescribe  certain  remedies,  when  all  gravity  was  set  at  defiance 
by  the  patient  exclaiming — "  How  should  water  find  its  way 
there  ?  No,  no,  doctor,  never  risk  your  reputation  by  telling 
the  world  that  you  found  water  in  the  stomach  of  George  Fre 
derick  Cooke !  What  say  you,  you  long-visaged,  lank-sided 


156       The  result  of  intemperance,  and  a  sick  chamber. 

yankee  philosopher?  Did  ever  water  approach  these  premises 
since  they  were  in  your  keeping  ?" 

Davenport,  thus  addressed,  and  finding  the  eyes  of  the  com 
pany  turned  upon  him,  answered  with  a  drawling  tone,  and 
great  deliberation — "  If  I  might  venture  to  propound  an  opinion 
upon  sich  a  deep  and  profound  subject — " 

"  As  my  stomach  !  Both  deep  and  profound,  ha  ?  I  have 
sometimes  thought  it  had  a  double  profundity.  Well,  Mr. 
wise  man  of  the  east,  go  on — your  opinion  ?" 

"  I  have  a  notion,  (without  pretending  to  give  an  opinion  ;)  I 
have  a  notion  that  that  critter  man,  is  a  compound  of  the  ele 
ments  of  arth,  air,  fire,  and  water;  and  that,  for  one  thing, 
makes  him  sich  a  contrarious  animal ;  and  for  another  thing,  it 
makes  it  necessary  for  his  bodily  health,  that  all  these  elements 
should  be  replenished  as  fast  as  they  evaporate,  or  are  exhaust 
ed.  Now,  if  I  may  he  permitted — " 

"  Go  on — propound — thou  learned  Theban." 

"  If  a  man  denies  admittance  to  water  through  the  proper 
and  natural  door,  by  which  it  brings  health  and  strength,  it  will 
find  another  inlet,  and  then  it  causes  diseases  and  weakness : 
and  in  Mr.  Cooke's  case,  it  being  always  refused  entrance 
above,  it  has  taken  advantage  of  the  warm  bath  ordered  for  his 
feet,  and  has  crept  up  through  his  toes." 

"  He  has  hit  it,  Doctor.  The  philosopher  has  found  the 
cause.  The  disease  has  outwitted  the  physician.  Most  learned 
Doctor  Davenport,  see  who  knocks." 

"  I  prohibit  any  more  company  this  day.  Mr.  Cooke  is  not 
well  enough  to  see  any  of  his  friends  until  to-morrow."  Spif- 
fard  followed  Trustworthy  ;  and  the  doctor  enjoining  quiet  for 
his  excited  patient,  soon  after  left  him  to  the  care  of  the  faithful, 
eccentric  philosopher. 


157 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  little  mystery,  and  an  old  acquaintance. 

"Of  what  incalculable  influence,  then,  for  good,  or  for  evil,  upon  thedear- 
•est  interests  of  society,  must  be  the  estimate  entertained  for  the  character  of 
this  great  body  of  teachers,  and  the  consequent  respectability  of  the  indivi 
duals  who  compose  it." — Verplanck. 

"You  have  often  begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am,  butstop'd, 
And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition." 

"  Is  there  no  pity  sitting  in  the  clouds, 
That  sees  into  the  bottom  of  my  grief." 

"It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth, 
Where  love's  strong  passion  is  impressed  in  youth.1' — Shakspsare. 

"Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent, 
Wilh  planet,  or  with  element. — Milton. 

" truth  shall  nurse  her, 

Holy  and  heavenly  thoughts  siill  counsel  her." 

" my  mother  you  wot  well, 

My  hazards  still  have  been  your  solace." 

"If  that  thy  father  live,  let  him  repent." 

"  Lepidus  is  high-coloured.    They  have  made  him  drink." 

"Faster  than  spring-time  showers,  comes  thought  on  thought." 

Sliakspeare. 

I  WILL  introduce  my  reader  to  another  sick  chamber  of  a 
very  different  aspect  from  the  last.  Indeed,  a  greater  contrast 
to  the  commodious  apartments  and  assiduous  attendants  which 
surrounded  and  administered  to  George  Frederick  Cookev 
could  not  well  be  imagined,  than  the  mean  and  scantily  fur 
nished  hovel-like  house  of  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  the  feeble  assis 
tance  which  could  be  rendered  to  her,  (suffering  and  sick  as 
she  was,)  by  her  only  permanent  attendant,  a  poor  little 
Degress.  True,  she  had  the  occasional  consolation  of  her  son's 
presence,  and  that  of  Emma  Portland :  the  consolation  of 
duteous  affection,  sympathy,  charity,  and  love.  When  thoscx 
occupations  which  enabled  him  to  procure  the  scanty  sum 
necessary  for  his  mother's  support,  would  permit,  she  had  the 

10* 


158  JL  little  mystery,  and  an  old  acquaintance. 

attendance  of  the  best  of  sons.  But  his  days  were  passed  in 
laborious  preparation  for  his  mother's  future  welfare,  and  even 
his  nights  were  devoted  to  gaining  the  pittance  required  by  their 
necessitous  condition  for  present  support;  especially  since  a 
chronic  disease  had  rendered  his  beloved  parent  incapable  of 
those  exertions  which  once  had  made  their  situation  comforta 
ble,  and  enabled  her  to  give  him  the  education  of  an  enlightened, 
efficient  citizen.  She  had  frequently  another  attendant,  (as 
noticed  above,)  whose  sex  made  her  more  competent  to  know, 
and  more  skilful  to  perform,  the  offices  which  the  sick  require. 
Emma  devoted  to  Mrs.  Johnson  as  much  of  her  time  as  she 
could  ;  but  she  was  wanted  at  home  to  assist  her  aunt  and 
cousin  ;  and  abroad,  by  others  who  were  sick  and  poor. 

Mrs.  Johnson  had  one  attendant  in  common  with  Mr.  Cooke. 
Of  the  many  physicians  who  exerted  their  skill  for  him,  one 
had  been  led  to  the  house  of  poverty,  and  administered  that 
relief  which  his  professional  skill  and  benevolent  disposition, 
enabled  him  to  give.  Emma  Portland  had  a  tie  stronger 
than  pity  and  charity,  or  even  sympathy  toward  a  person  so 
like  herself  in  disposition,  and  so  like  her  lost  mother  in  senti 
ments,  accomplishments,  knowledge,  and  resignation  to  the  will 
of  heaven.  Emma  had  become  acquainted  with  Henry  John 
son  before  his  mother's  illness,  when  she,  by  her  industry,  aided 
by  strict  economy,  had  supported  her  little  establishment,  while 
her  son  was  obtaining  that  knowledge  in  a  merchant's  count 
ing-house,  which  might  lead  to  a  competency  for  her  future 
comfort. 

This  young  couple,  (for  they  were  already  united  in  the 
purest  bonds  of  affection)  had  become  acquainted  in  a  manner 
and  in  a  place,  of  all  others,  most  likely  to  create  a  pure  union 
of  hearts,  because  the  employment  which  brought  them  in  the 
presence  of  each  other  evinced  the  congeniality  of  their  dispo 
sitions  and  the  kindred  feelings  of  well  regulated  minds.  They 
were  both  teachers  in  the  same  sunday  school :  both  employed 
in  the  diffusion  of  knowledge  to  those  whose  condition  in  life 
rendered  it  most  difficult  of  attainment :  both  endeavouring  to 
rescue  from  vice  those  most  exposed  to  become  its  victims — 
the  children  of  the  ignorant  and  vicious.  Sunday  was  the  only 
day  that  Henry  Johnson  was  free  from  the  labours  of  the 
counting  house ;  and  until  his  mother's  illness  required  his 
presence  in  attendance  on  her,  he  had  devoted  it  to  the  in 
struction  of  those  whose  avocations  or  situations  prevented  or 
prohibited  other  modes  or  opportunities  of  acquiring  know 
ledge.  The  form,  the  face,  the  general  appearance  of  Emma 


A  little  mystery,  and  an  old  acquaintance.  159 

Portland,  were  sufficient  to  attract  the  admiration  of  Henry  ; 
but  he  was  captivated  by  her  demeanor  while  bestowing  in 
struction  on  the  little  ones  around  her ;  who  soon  learned  to 
look  upon  her  as  a  friend,  and  to  love  the  lessons  she  bestowed, 
for  the  love  they  bore  their  beautiful  and  kind  instructress. 

Some  of  the  same  causes  operated  to  produce  the  same 
effects  in  the  breast  of  Emma  Portland.  She  observed  the 
punctuality  with  which  Henry  attended  to  his  voluntary  duties, 
and  the  patience  he  exhibited  in  performing  them.  His  manly 
form  and  expressive  face  might  have  passed  unnoticed ;  but 
his  suavity  of  manners,  his  devoted  attention  to  the  welfare  of 
those  who  were  entrusted  him,  attracted  her  attention  and 
gained  her  approbation.  They  had  occasion  to  commune  in 
this  their  benevolent  employment.  They  mutually  made  in 
quiries  respecting  each  other.  The  interchange  of  civility  and 
words  led  to  the  interchange  of  esteem,  and  finally  of  love. 

The  situation  of  Emma,  with  her  aunt  and  cousin,  was  by  no 
means  agreeable  to  Henry,  and  it  was  not  until  he  knew 
the  refined  and  just  sentiments,  and  had  learned  the  his 
tory  of  the  lovely  orphan,  that  he  suffered  love  to  lead  his 
hopes  on  to  the  anticipation  of  happiness  with  such  a  partner. 
Love,  with  minds  well  regulated  and  accustomed  to  self-con 
trol,  is  not  that  blind  and  irresistible  passion  which  poets  and 
novelists  have  described.  Once  convinced  of  the  worth  of  the 
object  of  his  admiration,  the  youth  felt  resolved  to  remove  her 
from  her  present  situation,  and  doubted  not  that  his  resources 
were  equal  to  the  task.  Before  sickness  had  reduced  his  mo 
ther  to  the  helpless  state  in  which  we  now  find  her,  Henry  had 
communicated  his  views  of  future  domestic  happiness,  and  had 
obtained  her  approbation  of  his  choice  :  those  views  were  at 
present  obscured  ;  but  youth  can  see  beyond  the  clouds. 

They  were  no  common  clouds  that  enveloped  the  Johnson?. 
Loss  of  health  had  caused  the  gradual  approach  of  that  ex 
treme  penury  which  threatened  to  render  the  remnant  of  this 
unfortunate  lady's  days  peculiarly  cheerless.  The  little  shop 
she  had  attended  to,  and  in  part  supplied  with  needle-worked 
articles  for  sale  by  her  own  industry  and  ingenuity,  had 
dwindled  away,  had  been  closed,  and  its  remaining  stock  sold 
at  auction.  Henry  had  discharged  all  debts,  paid  the  rent  of 
the  house  they  had  occupied,  and  removed,  with  his  parent,  to 
the  hovel  they  took  refuge  in,  there  to  meet  the  winter's  storms 
and  hide  from  the  cold  looks  of  worldlings.  All  the  poor 
were  not  yet  thrust  into  the  suburbs  of  the  city  or  the  adjoining 
villages,  and  this  mean  habitation  was  in  the  way  of  Emma 


16  3  Jl  lilllc  mystery,  and  an  old  acquaintance. 

Portland  in  her  walks  of  duty,  she  seldom  passed  the  house  of 
Mrs.  Johnson  without  paying  the  tribute  of  affection  to  suffer 
ing  merit.  She  seldom  saw  Henry  there  ;  and,  indeed,  his  ab 
sence  sometimes  appeared  to  her  mysterious.  We  need  not 
say  that  the  attentions  of  Emma  to  the  invalid  increased  the 
attachment  of  the  son,  and  caused  the  mother  to  place  her 
hopes  of  that  son's  future  happiness  on  the  prospect  of  his 
union  with  a  creature  of  such  rare  virtues. 

It  was  noon  on  Sunday — Henry,  who  at  this  period,  passed 
that  day  in  attendance  upon  his  mother,  had  been  reading  to 
her  in  the  family  bible.  He  had  ceased,  and  a  few  minutes  of 
silence  had  elapsed.  He  turned  to  the  leaf  on  which  is  usually 
recorded  those  important  events  in  domestic  history,  the  mar 
riage  of  the  father  and  mother,  and  the  day  and  hour  on  which 
it  took  place  :  this,  in  most  cases,  is  happily  followed  by  the 
dates  of  the  birth  of  each  child.  Henry  looked,  as  he  had 
often  before  done,  mournfully  upon  this  leaf  in  his  mother's 
bible.  It  was  mutilated.  The  top  of  the  leaf  on  which  the 
date  of  the  marriage  of  his  father  and  mother  had  been,  as  it 
would  appear,  written  in  the  accustomed  manner,  had  been  cut 
off.  There  was  no  record  on  the  leaf,  save  of  the  birth  of  a 
son  on  the  16th  of  June,  1791,  baptized  in  blank  church,  (the 
name  of  the  church  carefully  erased,)  Manchester,  by  the 
name  of  Henry. 

"  Mother,  it  is  long  since  you  promised  me,  that,  in  due 
time,  you  would  tell  me  who  and  what  my  father  was.  You 
know  that  I  look  often  at  every  part  of  this  book  ;  but,  since  I 
first  could  read,  this  leaf  has  fixed  my  attention  more  than  any 
other.  I  know  your  worth  too  well  to  entertain  a  thought  to 
your  disadvantage ;  but  it  sometimes  occurs  painfully  to  my 
mind,  that  only  some  act  committed  by  my  father,  either  dis 
graceful  or  criminal,  could  induce  you  to  permit  me  to  arrive 
at  man's  estate  ignorant  of  even  the  name  of  one  of  the  authors 
of  my  being.  Relieve  my  mind  from  this  impression,  and  say, 
at  least,  that  my  father's  name  is  not  dishonoured  in  his  native 
country." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  recur  to  this  subject,  Henry." 

'*  It  grieves  me  to  cause  you  sorrow ;  but,  believe  me,  dear 
mother,  if  you  should  be  taken  from  me,  and  leave  me  in  this 
incertitude,  I  would  not  rest  until  I  had  searched  the  records  of 
every  church  in  Manchester,  with  this  leaf  in  my  hand  ;  if  by 
no  other  means  this  mystery  could  be  cleared  and  my  curiosity 
satisfied.  I  pain  you,  madam,  but  forgive  me.  For  your 


A  little  mystery,  and  an  old  acquaintance.  161 

sake  I  have  deferred  pressing  this  question,  although  it  is  sel 
dom  absent  from  my  thoughts — for  your  sake  I  would  still 
defer  it — but  another  is  now  interested  in  it.  Emma  Portland 
is  entitled  to  ask,  and  should  know,  that  the  father  of  the  man 
she  looks  forward  to  honour,  was  not  one  whose  nam4  shall 
hereafter  cause  a  blush  on  that  face  which  was  never  suffused 
with  the  livery  of  shame.  If  your  strength  does  not  suffice  to 
enter  into  a  full  explanation  of  the  meaning  of  this  mutilated 
leaf  in  the  sacred  volume,  at  least  say  that  my  father's  name  is 
not  a  reproach  and  a  by-word  in  his  native  land." 

"  Henry,  I  cannot  now  enter  into  a  painful  story — but  I  re 
peat  my  promise — you  shall  know  all — even  if  I  should  die 
this  day — you  will  know  all." 

"  And  my  father's  name  is  not  pronounced,  (when  he  is 
spoken  of)  with  epithets  of  contumely  attached  to  it1?" 

"  On  the  contrary — in  terms  of  admiration." 

"  And  yet — you  are  in  a  foreign  land — and  his  son  is  igno 
rant  of  that  name.  Mother !  you  are  as  pure  as  the  mind  of 
man  can  imagine,  or  the  heart  of  a  son  can  desire.  You  have 
bred  me  in  the  love  of  truth,  and  abhorrence  of  mystery — and 
yet—" 

"  And  yet — my  son,  I  cannot  willingly  pronounce  the  name 
of  your  father.  Forbear — I  entreat  you — you  cannot  long  re 
main  in  ignorance.  It  is  my  wish  to  inform  you  of  every  cir 
cumstance  before  my  death,  and  that  must  be  in  a  few  weeks — 
perhaps  days — I  am  ill — give  me  that  glass  of  water — 
quick—" 

With  affright  and  contrition  her  son  obeyed  her.  And 
while  tenderly  supporting  his  parent's  head  and  in  broken  ac 
cents  asking  her  forgiveness,  Emma,  who  with  the  little  black 
girl  had  been  at  St.  Paul's  chapel,  entered  and  flew  to  his  as 
sistance. 

In  such  hands  the  fainting  woman  soon  revived.  With 
such  a  nurse  sickness  and  sorrow  were  soothed  to  serenitv. 
The  mother  banished  the  recollections  of  former  woe,  and 
blessing  the  virtuous  pair  who  revived  her  hopes  of  happiness 
in  an  earthly  futurity,  though  not  for  herself,  she  sunk  sobbing 
on  her  pillow,  her  overcharged  heart  relieved  by  a  shower  of 
salutary  tears. 

Such  was  the  scene  at  the  bedside  of  the  poor  unknown. 
We  have  seen  what  was  passing  by  the  sick-bed  of  the  rich, 
the  famous,  the  idolized  George  Frederick  Cooke — more  ot" 
both,  anon.  We  will  return  to  Zebediah  Spiffard. 

About  this  time  the  comedian's   recollections  of  Boston 


162  A  little  mystery,  and  an  old  acquaintance. 

were  revived  by  an  accidental  meeting  with  a  person  whose 
conduct  had  materially  affected  the  course  of  those  events 
which  we  have  recorded,  and  of  course  those  yet  to  follow  in 
our  story.  The  chain  of  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future, 
is  never  broken. 

As  SpifFard  passed  through  Nassau-street,  he  was  accosted 
by  a  man  who  came  at  the  moment  from  a  public  house,  no 
torious  as  the  resort  of  those  who,  like  Bardolph,  carry  faces 
that  might  be  mistaken  for  my  landlady's  red  petticoat.  This 
person  stopping  directly  in  the  footway,  cried,  "  sure  it  is 
Mr.  Spiffard !" 

"  That  is  my  name,  sir." 

«  Why,  Zeb,  have  you  forgotten  your  old  master  t" 

The  truth  flashed  upon  SpifFard,  and  with  it  a  pang  shot  to 
his  heart — a  pang  only  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  circum 
stances  of  his  childhood,  the  last  scenes  in  his  father's  house, 
his  present  doubts  and  fears,  and  the  peculiar  susceptibility  of 
his  character,  on  the  subject  of  the  species  of  moral  degradation 
which  he  at  once  perceived  written  on  the  countenance  of  this 
unhappy  man.  He  gasped  for  breath  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Mr. 
Treadwell !" 

41  Ay !  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  my  boy!  Come  in — come 
in,"  and  he  turned  to  the  door  he  had  just  left.  "  Come  in — 
I  have  been  inquiring  for  you,  and  was  going  to  see  you — 
come  in — you  can  help  me — you  can  give  me  the  information 
I  want." 

He  led  him,  though  reluctant,  first  into  the  bar  room  of  the 
tavern,  and  then  into  a  private  apartment.  He  loathed  the 
sight  and  smell  of  the  place,  but  he  could  not  refuse  to  follow 
one  who  revived  recollections  of  a  happy  period  of  his  youth, 
and  who  he  had  once  been  accustomed  to  respect  and  obey. 
He  was  urged  on  likewise  by  the  feeling  of  shame  at  being 
seen  in  the  street  with  a  man  whose  appearance  denoted  the 
effect  both  of  past  and  present  excess. 

In  despite  of  Spiffard's  remonstrances  Treadwell  ordered 
brandy  ;  and  talking  with  rapidity  soon  made  known  the  cause 
of  his  journey  to  New-York.  He  displayed  his  own  turpitude 
with  an  assurance  which  nothing  but  his  present  excitement, 
and  a  belief  in  the  laxity  of  morals  attached  to  the  profession 
his  quondam  pupil  had  chosen,  could  account  for. 

Mrs.  Tomlinson,  a  favourite  actress,  had  been  engaged 
for  the  New- York  theatre,  after  a  separation  from  her  hus 
band,  an  event  which  had  taken  place  in  Boston,  and  Spiffard 
now  learned  that  his  former  legal  instructor,  although  married 


A  little  mystery,  and  an  old  acquaintance.  163 

and  the  father  of  a  family,  had  been  the  cause  of  the  divorce. 
With  the  recklessness  which  the  progress  in  guilt  naturally  in 
duces,  he  had  come  on  to  effect  a  re-union  with  the  un 
happy  woman,  by  inducing  her  to  return  to  the  place  of  his 
residence.  She  had,  however,  formed  another  attachment  in 
New- York,  and,  hearing  of  Treadwell's  arrrival,  secreted  her 
self  from  his  pursuit. 

Little  doubting  but  that  Spiffard  could  give  him  the  desired 
information,  he  concluded  his  communication  with — "  you 
will  tell  me  where  she  is  to  be  found." 

'•  I  do  not  know,  sir." 

'*  My  dear  fellow,  that  is  impossible.  She  is  of  too  much 
importance  in  die  theatrical  world  to  allow  me  to  believe  that. 
You  may  as  well  tell  me,  for  I  will  know.  Thomson,  to 
whom  I  gave  her  letters  when  she  left  Boston,  shuns  me — and 
I  suspect — but  I  have  come  here  to  see  her,  and  I  will  see 
her." 

'*  I  know  nothing  of  her,  except  as  I  have  seen  her  on  the 
stage  ;  and  her  character  is  such  that  I  wish  no  nearer  ac 
quaintance." 

"  That's  too  good !  Your  wife  does  not  associate  with  her  V 

44  Certainly  not,  sir." 

'*  That's  very  well !  very  well,  indeed  !  When  all  the  world 
knows  how  her  character  stood  before — " 

"  Stop,  sir  !" 

"  Mrs.  Spiffard,  or  Mrs.  Trow.bridge— " 

'•  Stop,  sir !"  and  Spiffard's  eyes  flashed  fire,  his  face  was 
flushed,  and  his  limbs  were  braced  to  the  tension  of  the  tiger's, 
before  he  springs  on  his  prey.  "  Stop,  sir,  one  word  spoken 
disrespectfully  of  my  wife,  will  be  resented  on  the  instant. 
Contrary  to  my  wishes,  you  have  told  me  your  own  infamy, 
and  that  of  the  person  you  seek  ;  yet  you  have  dared  to  ask 
me  if  she  is  the  companion  of  my  wife.  I  despise  your  insin 
uations,  but  I  will  not  suffer  them  to  be  repeated." 

"  Why,  why,  why,  my  dear  fellow,  why  do  you  fly  out  in  this 
manner  ?  We  all  know — that  is — come,  come,  take  some 
brandy  and  water." 

"  Mr.  Treadwell,  you  have  already  taken  too  much.  If  you 
had  not  deprived  yourself  of  the  sense  of  shame,  as  well  as  the 
power  of  reasoning,  you  would  not  have  exposed  yourself  and 
the  unhappy  woman,  who,  perhaps,  but  for  you,  would  have 
been  a  respectable  wife  and  mother.  I  must  leave  you,  sir." 

"  What  1  Why,  Zeb  ?  Don't  you  ask  your  old  friend  to 
come  and  see  you  1  What !  cut  me  !" 


164  A  little  mystenj,  and  an  old  acquaintance. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  believe  your  own  account  of  yourself. 
When  I  heard  your  story  from  others,  I  tried  to  disbelieve  it. 
Our  acquaintance  ends  here." 

Spifiurd  did  not  listen  to  his  reply,  but  left  the  house  abruptly. 
He  left  the  house,  but  another  arrow  had  entered  his  inmost 
soul,  his  heart's  heart,  and  was  borne  away  with  him.  The 
words  he  had  heard  in  the  Park,  when  we  first  met  him  ;  the 
mystery  which  hung  over  some  passages  of  the  life  of  one 
whose  fame  and  welfare  he  had  rashly  united  to  his  own ;  the 
consciousness  of  precipitancy  in  contracting  an  engagement 
for  life,  so  vitally  important  to  his  peace  ;  all  rushed  upon  his 
tortured  mind  as  he  left  the  tavern  ;  and  Ihe  unhappy  Tread- 
well's  looks,  as  well  as  the  inuendos  he  had  given,  continued 
to  haunt  him  with  horrid  recollections.  He  passed  through  the^ 
bar-room  to  gain  the  street.  When  on  the  pavement,  he  heard 
from  within  a  shout  of  laughter  from  those  who  surrounded  the 
bar ;  and  his  imagination  pictured  a  crowd  of  bloated  fiends, 
sitting  in  the  clouds,  and  rejoicing  at  his  misery. 

Treadwell  sought  to  drown  the  voice  of  conscience,  and  the 
sense  of  humiliation,  on  the  spot.  A  few  words  will  terminate 
his  story.  While  unsuccessfully  seeking  the  woman  for  whom 
he  had  deserted  his  home,  and  whose  infamy  he  was  proclaim 
ing  by  the  search,  her  husband  arrived  in  New-York,  on  his 
way  from  south  to  east,  and  hearing  of  Tread  well's  presence, 
and  avowed  object,  he  sought  him,  and  in  a  public  place  inflict 
ed  the  chastisement  of  the  most  contumacious  words,  accompa 
nied  by  blows.  The  wretch  returned  to  his  native  place  ;  he 
had  no  home  ;  he  died  neglected  by  all  but  the  wife  he  had 
deserted. 

The  unfortunate  husband  whose  domestic  peace  had  been 
invaded,  his  wife,  and  the  friend  of  the  seducer,  who  appro 
priated  the  guilty  consignment  to  his  own  use,  all  perished 
•early  and  miserably.  Such  things  have  been ;  and,  perhaps, 
if  mankind  knew  that  their  deeds  of  evil  would  not  be  covered 
by  the  veil  of  charity,  but  proclaimed  for  the  truth's  sake,  many 
might  be  checked  in  the  downward  course,  and  brought  to 
real  repentance  ;  which  is  amendment. 


165 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  dinner  party  in  1811. 

"Your  reasons  at  dinner  have  been  sharp  and  sententious;  pleasant 
without  scurrility,  witty  without  affectation,  audacious  without  impudence, 
learned  without  opinion,  and  strange  without  heresy." 

"  Some  sports  are  painful ;  but  their  labour, 
Delight  in  them  sets  off." 

"  The  rich  wine  first  must  rise  in  these  fair  cheeks,  my  lord,  then  we  shall 
have  them  talk  us  to  silence." — Shakspcare 

"When  a  rich  man  hath  fallen,  he  hath  many  helpers;  he  speaketh 
things  not  to  be  spoken,  and  yet  men  justify  him.  The  poor  man  slipped, 
and  yet  they  rebuked  him  too ;  he  spake  wisely,  and  could  have  no  place." 

Ecclesiasticus. 

"  Time  is  the  old  justice  that  examines  all  such  offenders ;  and  let  Time 
try." — Stiakspeare. 

"Experience,  though  none  authorite 
Were  in  this  worlde,  is  ryght  ynowe  for  me." — Chaucer. 

TIME  rolled  on,  or  flew,  or  crept,  or  limped,  according  to  the 
circumstances  or  the  feelings  of  his  children ;  those  children 
who  murder  him,  and  whom  he,  though  murdered,  never  dying, 
devours. 

Winter  had  arrived,  and  the  many-coloured  leaves  of  autumn 
had  been  scattered  to  the  winds,  or  fallen  to  the  earth,  as  a 
covering  for  the  roots  from  which  they  had  derived  their  sum 
mer  nourishment ;  the  long  protracted  rain-storms  of  Novem 
ber  had  given  place  to  the  freezing  blasts  of  the  north-west, 
before  George  Frederick  Cooke  had  so  far  recovered,  as  to  be 
permitted  by  his  physicians  to  resume  his  place  at  the  festive 
boards  of  his  numerous  admirers. 

Doctor  Cadwallader,  (who  had  attended  the  old  tragedian, 
in  conjunction  with  Doctors  Hosack,  McLean,  and  Francis,) 
had  long  promised  his  friends  the  pleasure  of  dining  with  the 
eccentric  thespian  ;  accordingly,  having  stipulated  that  the 
bottle  should  be  under  the  control  of  two  medical  attendants, 
a  day  was  fixed  when  Cooke  was  to  be  the  lion  of  the  party  ; 
and  exhibited  in  the  evening,  to  the  female  acquaintance  of  Mrs. 


166  jf  dinne r  party  in  1811. 

Cadwallader,  and  as  many  of  the  elite  of  the  city  as  the  draw 
ing-rooms  might  accommodate. 

Spiffard  was  invited  to  the  dinner  and  tea  party  in  due  form  ; 
for  he  had  become  acquainted  with  all  Cooke's  physicians,  from 
the  circumstance  of  being  found  so  frequently  at  the  bed-side 
of  their  histrionic  patient.  As  we  have  said,  Cooke  was  attend 
ed  by  no  less  than  four  of  the  faculty,  of  the  highest  grade  ;  but 
Cadwallader  took  the  lead  as  the  senior,  although  Hosack, 
McLean,  and  Francis  were  all  consulted  :  all  separately  visited 
the  invalid  at  times,  and  sometimes  altogether. 

The  young  comedian  declined  the  invitation.  He  had  deter 
mined  not  to  make  one  in  parties  from  which  his  wife  was 
excluded.  Mrs.  Spiffard  was  one  of  the  acknowledged  heroines 
of  the  stage  at  this  time,  but  as  utterly  shut  out  from  female 
society  as  if  she  had  been  infected  with  the  most  deadly  conta 
gion.  Spiffard  had  thought  little  of  this  before  marriage  ;  it 
was  one  of  the  after-thoughts  that  tormented  him. 

Actresses  have  never  been  received  into  society,  in  this 
country,  on  a  footing  of  equality.  Some  are  visited,  sought 
after,  and  invited  into  the  circles  of  the  rich  and  fashionable, 
when  they  have  recently  arrived  from  Europe,  under  particular 
circumstances ;  but  even  then,  they  are  rather  considered  as 
objects  to  gaze  at,  and  show  off,  than  as  persons  belonging  to 
the  class  who  pay  them  these  attentions.  This  class  consider 
themselves  as  patrons.  The  patronized  are  generally  superior, 
both  in  talents  and  accomplishments,  to  their  patronizing  enter 
tainers  ;  yet  are  they  never  considered  as  other  than  inferior 
to  those  who  show  them  off,  and  pride  themselves  upon  their 
liberality  in  so  doing. 

It  is  in  vain  to  deny,  or  endeavour  to  conceal  from  the  actress, 
that  the  very  circumstance  of  publicly  exhibiting  for  hire,  that 
person,  and  those  talents,  so  admired  and  applauded,  has  de 
graded  her  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Be  it  just  or  unjust,  50  it 
it  ;  and,  perhaps,  so  it  ought  to  be. 

That  this  is  unjust,  in  some  instances,  is  certain.  We  have 
known  ladies  of  superior  talents  and  education,  who  have 
made  the  stage  their  profession,  under  the  immediate  guardian 
ship  of  their  parents,  that  they  might  retrieve  the  fortunes  of 
their  fathers,  and  support  the  younger  branches  of  their  family 
in  a  necessary  course  of  education.  The  tribute  to  these  ladies 
from  justice,  ought  to  be  reverential  respect  and  praise. 

The  knowledge  we  all  have  of  the  character  of  an  audience  at 
a  theatre — the  mingled  character,  in  which  so  much  of  the  baser 
material  preponderates — the  conviction  that  the  plaudits  of  a  play 


A  dinn er  party  in  1811.  167 

house  are  sought  with  avidity — almost  valued  as  the  supreme 
good  by  many,  and  boasted  of  by  the  individuals,  as  "  I  got 
three  rounds'* — "  the  pit  rose  to  me."  The  certainty  that  the 
actress  must  come  in  contact  with  (and  the  world  knows  not 
how  intimately)  those  of  the  same  profession  of  both  sexes 
known  to  be  impure,  although  of  equal  or  superior  talent  to 
herself — on  the  same  stage — behind  those  mysterious  curtains 
and  scenes — in  those  dark  recesses,  of  which  the  secluded  ma 
tron,  or  even  the  dashing  woman  of  fashion,  knows  no  more 
than  she  does  of  the  world  beyond  the  grave — the  knowledge 
of  these  circumstances,  and  the  considerations  and  impressions 
flowing  from  this  knowledge — all  these  items  ever  did,  and  still 
do,  make  the  world  pause  and  hesitate  and  feel  shy  and  queer, 
when  required  to  associate  with  an  actress,  however  much  it 
may  admire  the  skill  or  talents  of  the  individual. 

Spiffard  had  not  thought  of  all  this  before  his  marriage.  As 
a  boy,  in  Boston,  he  only  saw  the  stage  to  admire  ;  in  Eng 
land,  he  had  only  seen  the  bright  side  of  the  picture  which  the 
drama  exhibits.  He  was  pure  himself,  and  void  of  suspicion 
in  a  degree  that  exposed  him  to  ridicule.  He  knew  nothing  of 
the  higher  class  of  English  society,  except  as  represented  in 
books,  and  he  knew  that  actresses  were  admitted  amongst  the 
nobles  of  the  land,  and  even  united  in  marriage  with  them. 
Now  that  he  was  married  to  an  actress  of  talents,  he  was  at 
first  surprised  to  find,  that  his  wife  was  considered  of  an  infe 
rior  caste  by  those  who  applauded  her ;  and  that,  although 
they  invited  him  to  their  parties,  his  domestic  partner  was  not 
thought  of  as  his  and  their  companion.  He  had  made  other 
discoveries  not  less  inimical  to  his  peace  ;  and  although  he  had 
no  wish  to  lead  Mrs.  Spiffard  into  the  drawing-room  of  Doctor 
Cadwallader,  or  any  other  magnate  of  the  city,  he  felt  that 
where  his  wife  was  doomed  to  linger,  he  ought  to  remain  ;  and 
that,  content  or  not,  he  must  rest  wiih  her.  They  were  united 
for  better  for  worse.  It  was  worse  than  he  expected — it  will 
Happen  so  sometimes — he  hoped  to  make  it  better.  He  had 
chosen,  and  chose  to  abide  by  his  choice. 

Such  was  the  ground  Spiffard  took  in  respect  to  receiving 
the  invitations  of  those  who  admired  his  talents  and  those  of 
his  wife — invited  him  and  neglected  her.  He  therefore  accepted 
no  invitations.  But  in  the  present  instance,  Cooke  prevailed 
upon  him  to  go  with  /itm,  as  his  protector  from  himself.  The 
physicians  urged  him  to  comply.  The  tragedian  at  length  re 
fused  to  go  without  him,  calling  him  his  mentor,  his  guardian, 
and  promising  to  be  guided  by  him.  The  water-drinker  was 


168  JL  dinner  party  in  1811. 

persuaded  to  waive  all  objections  (the  objections,  as  may  be 
supposed,  were  neither  stated  nor  discussed),  and  finally  to 
yield. 

The  party  at  the  dinner-table  was  large.  The  physicians 
of  the  theatrical  lion  made  a  part.  Mr.  Littlejohn  and  his 
friend  Governor  Tompkins  sat  near  Spiffard  and  Cooke.  Op 
posite  to  them  was  a  gentleman  Spiffard  had  never  seen  be 
fore  :  a  man  far  past  the  meridian  of  life,  tall,  above  the  usual 
height  of  Americans  (and  that  exceeds  the  European  standard): 
this  height  was  reduced,  however,  by  a  habit  of  courteous  bow 
ing.  His  face  remarkable  for  symmetry  ;  his  complexion  fair, 
but  rather  ruddy ;  and  his  full  blue  eyes  were  half  closed  with 
smiles  while  attending  to  the  words  of  every  speaker.  The 
dinner  was  good,  ample,  and  served  with  taste.  When  I  speak 
of  a  good  dinner,  I  mean  such  as  might  have  been  thought 
good  in  England  fifty  years  ago,  before  gastronomy  was  a  sci 
ence,  or  cooks,  artistes.  The  wine  was  good,  and  of  every 
choice  kind.  The  host  was  a  man  who  knew  how  to  welcome 
his  guests  and  make  them  at  home,  by  freeing  them  from  su 
perfluous  attentions.  The  ladies  of  the  family,  Mrs.  Cadwal- 
lader  and  daughters,  with  a  favoured  few,  graced  the  table,  and 
according  to  the  custom  of  those  days,  soon  withdrew  after 
the  dessert,  taking  with  them  several  other  nymphs  related  to 
them,  called  Temperance,  Sobriety,  Moderation,  and  some 
times  Decency. 

Cooke,  who  was,  to  use  a  green-room  phrase,  "  the  great 
pan  of  the  dairy,"  had  great  attention  paid  to  him,  and  it  was 
evident  that  much  was  expected  from  him  ;  but  nothing  came. 
He  was  courteous,  reserved,  not  quite  silent,  but  very  cautious. 
When  challenged  to  a  glass  of  wine,  he  touched  the  brim  or 
sipped.  Tho  master  of  the  feast  observed  his  caution,  and  de 
ferred  any  attempt  to  draw  him  out  for  the  present.  Spiffard, 
who  had  been  introduced  to  Governor  Tompkins  by  his  friend 
Littlejohn,  was  by  far  the  most  of  a  star :  for  he  shone  upon 
every  topic  which  he  touched  in  the  course  of  conversation, 
without  any  of  the  affectation  of  the  theatre,  or  the  forwardness 
of  the  traveller  ;  and  displayed  a  knowledge  of  subjects  so  fo 
reign  to  what  is  generally  considered  the  train  of  study  a  co 
median  would  pursue,  that  he  excited  the  admiration  and  fixed 
the  attention  of  all  who  were  in  his  vicinity. 

A  subject  happened  to  be  started  which  gave  Mr.  Littlejohn 
an  opportunity  of  entertaining  those  near  him,  and  especially 
Spiffard,  by  detailing  circumstances  connected  with  a  scene 
dear  to  every  American  of  right  feeling.  It  is  one  of  the  pri- 


c2  dinner  party  in  1 8 1 1 .  169 

vileges  of  age  to  be  sometimes  interesting,  merely  as  witnesses 
of  by-gone  events,  if  a  habit  of  observation  has  charadterized 
the  youth  of  the  witness,  and  a  love  of  truth  accompanies  the 
decline  of  life. 

A  difference  respecting  the  date  existed  between  governor 
Tornpkins  and  the  remarkably  handsome  tall  gentleman  who 
sat  opposite  to  him.  Few  men,  for  beauty  or  courtesy,  could 
compete  with  the  governor ;  but  his  present  opponent,  though 
older,  was  more  dignified  in  appearance,  and  would  in  most 
eyes  pass  for  the  handsomer  man.  The  general,  for  that  was 
the  title  by  which  he  was  accosted,  was  a  more  fashionably 
dressed  man  than  the  governor,  or  perhaps  any  person  present ; 
his  fine  formed  face  showed  little  mark  of  age,  except  about 
the  eyes  and  brows,  and  the  brilliancy  of  his  florid  complexion 
the  smoothness  of  his  skin,  as  well  as  demeanor,  turned  away 
all  suspicion,  which  times'  powder-puff  or  crows-feet  might 
have  excited.  As  we  have  said,  he  was  tall  above  the  average^ 
of  even  American  height,  and  might  be  said  to  be  a  very  hand 
some  as  well  as  very  well  dressed  geatleman. 

Such  were  the  courteous  disputants. 

"  Mr.  Littlejohn,  I  dare  say,  can  tell  us,"  said  the  governor. 

"  His  knowledge,"  said  the  referree,  "is  at  all  times  at  the 
service  of  the  man  of  the  people's  choice." 

"  We  were  at  a  loss  for  the  date  (that  is,  the  day,  for  no  one 
can  forget  the  year)  of  a  very  important  transaction  ;  no  less 
than  that  which  put  a  seal  to  the  federal  union  and  the  consti 
tution  of  the  United  States." 

"  The  doctor's  library  would  resolve  that  question,  but  to 
save  trouble  I  will  be  your  authority.  It  was  the  thirtieth  day 
of  April,  1789.  I  believe  you,  governor,  are  too  young  to  have 
been  present,  but  the  general  might  have  witnessed  the  scene." 

Littlejohn  looked  at  the  general  with  an  expression  which 
Spiffard  noticed,  but  which  was  mysterious1,  and  at  the  time,  to 
him,  inexplicable. 

"  I  was  in  France  at  the  time,"  said  the  geneial. 

"  Were  you  present  at  the  ceremony  V  asked  Spiffard  with 
enthusiasm,  addressing  the  merchant. 

"I  was,  and  assisted,  in  the  capacity  of  grenadier ;  standing 
in  front  of  the  building  erected  on  the  site  of  the  old  provincial 
town-house,  for  the  accommodation  of  Congress,  and  which 
was  called  Federal  Hall  after  the  adoption  of  the  consti 
tution." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Cadwallader,  whose  attention  was  at- 


170  A  dinner  party  in  1811. 

tracted  by  the  subject,  as  well  as  by  reverence  for  the  speaker, 
"  as  the  building  you  mention  has  been  long  swept  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  the  place  where  Washington  pledged 
himself  to  support  that  constitution  his  wisdom  aided  in  form 
ing,  has  been  devoted  to  the  children  of  mammon,  and  to  the 
strife  between  cupidity  and  tax-gathering,  your  description  of 
a  place,  the  memory  of  which  is  hallowed  in  my  mind,  would 
be  very  interesting  to  us  men  of  these  utilitarian  days." 

"  And  a  description  of  the  ceremony,"  said  Governor  Tomp- 
kins ;"  for  though  I  was  old  enough  to  have  seen  it,  I  was  at 
Westchester,  probably  playing  the  idler  at  the  time,  for  I  wait 
on  a  visit  to  my  father,  and  glad  to  escape  from  my  master's 
office,  and  the  study  of  Coke  upon  Littleton." 

"  Federal  Hall,  as  well  as  the  building  which  gave  place  to 
it,  projected  into  Wall-street  where  Broad-street  terminates, 
on  the  one  side,  and  Nassau  on  the  other.  A  covered  way 
accommodated  foot-passengers  ;  over  it  was  a  balcony,  the 
pediment  surmounting  which  was  supported  by  massive  pil 
lars,  swelling  fancifully  in  the  centre,  rather  according  with  the 
architect's  whim  than  with  any  known  order." 

"  Who  was  the  architect,  sir?"  asked  the  general. 

"  Major  L'Enfant." 

11  Aha  !  a  Frenchman.  How  infinitely  are  Americans  in 
debted  to  France.  She  stepped  forward  in  the  cause  of  free 
dom,  and  with  unexampled  liberality  sent  her  fleets  and  armie» 
to  rescue  America  from  oppression." 

"  When  I  hear  of  the  liberality  of  Louis  the  Sixteenth's  go 
vernment  in  the  cause  of  liberty,  and  of  the  debt  we  owe  to 
France  for  seizing  a  favourable  opportunity  to  cripple  the 
power  of  England,  I  can  only  express  my  dissent  by  one  word 
— a  very  expressive  old  English  word,  though  not  perhaps 
classical." 

*'  What  is  that,  Mr.  Littlejohn  ?"  asked  the  governor. 

"  Fudge!" 

"Ha!  ha!  But  we  must  not  lose  Federal  Hall  and  the 
first  presidential  inauguration.  You  have  described  the  pedi 
ment  and  its  pillars  or  columns." 

"  These  pillars  divided  the  open  space  within  which  the  in 
auguration  took  place  into  three  parts,  making  a  picture  to 
those  in  front  of  the  building,  like  Raphael's  apostles  at  the 
beautiful  gate  of  the  temple.  As  Broad-street  terminated  at 
this  spot,  forming  an  open  space,  the  persons  on  the  balcony 
were  in  full  view  of  the  populace.  The  volunteer  companies 


A  dinner  party  in  1811.  171 

of  militia,  in  full  uniform,  paraded  in  front  of  the  Hall,  on  Wall- 
street.  Some  troops  of  horse,  well  mounted  and  equipped, 
two  companies  of  grenadiers  that  might  have  pleased  old  Fre 
derick,  the  one  filled  by  the  tallest  youth  of  the  city,  the  other 
composed  of  Germans  ;  many  of  them  men  who  had  found 
means  to  remain,  as  citizens  and  freemen,  among  the  people 
their  masters  had  sent  them  to  reduce  to  the  condition  of 
slaves.  These,  with  a  company  in  the  garb  and  military  equip 
ment  of  Scotch  Highlanders,  were  drawn  in  line  with  several 
bodies  of  artillery  and  infantry.  My  good  friends,  Generals 
Morgan  Lewis,  and  Jacob  Morton,  were  both  active  officers 
on  the  glorious  day,  and  could  give  you  many  interesting  de 
tails  which  may  have  escaped  me,  a  private,  and  confined  to  the 
ranks.  Both  houses  of  Congress  being  assembled,  they,  with 
foreign  ambassadors  and  other  distinguished  persons,  filled  the 
balcony  and  the  space  behind  it.  From  this  elevation,  the  view 
of  Broad-street  was  of  one  living  mass,  a  silent  and  expectant 
mass;  with  faces  upturned,  they  gazed  upon  the  man  of  their 
hearts  as  he  walked  from  the  interior  of  the  building,  and  took 
his  place  in  the  centre  of  the  balcony,  between  two  pillars 
which  bounded  the  compartment,  and  formed  the  principal 
group  of  this  great  historic  picture." 

"  Mr.  Spiffard,"  said  Cadwallader,  "  precious  as  youth  is, 
one  would  almost  consent  to  be  old,  to  have  seen  such  a 
day !" 

"  Not  only  almost,  but  quite,  sir  !"  replied  Spiffard. 

Cooke  listened  without  appearing  to  attend.  The  handsome 
general  bowed,  saying,  "  You  have  an  excellent  memory,  Mr. 
Littlejohn.  It  is  a  great  blessing." 

"  That  depends  upon  circumstances,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  ac 
companied  by  a  glance  such  as  he  seemed  to  keep  in  store  for 
the  general.  "It  is  sometimes  convenient  to  forget — and 
memory  may  be  a  curse." 

Cadwallader  appeared  to  notice  the  look  and  the  reply,  al 
though  the  general's  face  gave  no  symptoms  of  any  movement 
within  ;  and  the  doctor  adroitly  said,  "  It  was  indeed  a  great 
historic  picture !  You  can,  perhaps,  not  only  remember  the 
persons  present,  the  figures  of  the  price,  but  their  situation  on 
the  canvas." 

"  As  though  it  were  yesterday." 

"  Pray  give  us  the  picture,"  said  the  doctor. 

*'  In  a  painting,  costume  is  essential  to  truth  ;  and  if  I  paint, 
truth  shall  be  my  first  object." 

Cooke  observed  in  a  whisper,  "  Then  you  will  be  the  first 


172  £  dinner  party  in  1811. 

historian  (writer  or  painter)  that  ever  paid  her  ladyship  such  a 
compliment." 

The  merchant  proceeded.  "  The  president  elect  made  his 
appearance,  that  day,  in  a  plain  suit  of  brown  cloth  ;  coat,  waist 
coat,  and  breeches  ;  the  dress  was  homespun — home-manufac 
tured,  even  to  the  buttons  ;  which  my  old  friend  Rollinson,  the 
engraver,  takes  pride  in  saying,  displayed  the  arms  of  the 
United  States,  chased  by  his  graver.  White  silk  stockings 
showed  the  contour  of  a  manly  leg  :  and  his  shoes,  according 
to  the  fashion  of  the  time,  were  ornamented  with  buckles.  His 
head  was  uncovered,  and  his  hair  dressed  and  powdered  ;  for 
such  was  the  universal  custom  of  the  day.  Thus  was  his  tall, 
fine  figure  presented  to  our  view,  at  the  moment  which  forms 
an  epoch  in  the  history  of  nations.  John  Adams,  a  shorter 
figure,  in  a  similarly  plain  dress,  but  with  the  (even  then)  old- 
fashioned  Massachusetts  wig,  stood  at  Washington's  right 
hand ;  and  opposite  to  the  president  elect  stood  Chancellor 
Livingston,  in  a  full  suit  of  black,  ready  to  administer  the  pre 
scribed  oath  of  office.  Between  them  was  placed  Mr.  Otis, 
the  clerk  of  the  senate,  a  small  man,  bearing  the  bible  on  a 
cushion.  In  the  back-ground  of  this  picture,  and  in  the  right 
and  left  compartments  formed  by  the  pillars,  stood  the  wrarrior& 
and  sages  of  the  revolution.  The  men  who  forgot  self  for  the 
sake  of  their  country." 

"  O,  for  a  painter  !"  cried  Spiffard. 

"  Go  on  with  the  accessories  to  your  picture,5'  said  the 
doctor. 

"  The  man  on  whom  all  eyes  were  fixed,  and  on  whom  all 
hearts  rested,  stretched  forth  his  hand  with  that  simplicity 
and  dignity  which  characterized  all  his  actions,  and  placed  it 
on  the  open  book.  The  oath  of  office  was  read.  The  bible 
was  raised,  and  he  bowed  his  head  upon  it.  The  chancellor 
announced  that  '  it  was  done' — that  George  Washington  was 
the  President  of  the  United  States  of  America.  The  silence 
of  thousands  was  at  an  end  ;  and  the  air  was  rent  with  accla 
mations,  bursting  simultaneously  from  the  hearts  and  tongues 
of  men  who  felt  that  the  happiness  of  themselves  and  their  pos 
terity  was  secured."* 

'*  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  dactor. 

"  O,  what  a  contrast  is  this  simple  picture,  to  the  impious 
mockery  and  insulting  pageantry  which  attends  the  coronations 

*  This  is  the  description  of  an  eye-witness  of  the  scene. 


Jl  dinnerparty  in  1811.  173 

of  European  potentates,"  was  the  exclamation  of  the  Yer- 
monter. 

"  Those  imposing  ceremonies,  sanctioned  by  religion,  and 
made  sacred  by  time,  have  their  effect,"  remarked  the  general. 

"  Imposing  ceremonies  !  Yes,  they  have  their  erfect  on 
those  who  are  kept  in  ignorance  by  impostors."  Then  turning; 
from  the  general  (who  bowed,  but  could  not  smile)  to  SpifFard, 
the  merchant  continued.  "  My  young  friend,  every  American 
must  feel  proud  when  contemplating  the  simplicity  and  wis 
dom  of  our  institutions." 

"  Will  they  not  last  forever  ?" 

"  Forever  is  a  long  day,"  whispered  Cooke. 

*'  That  is  a  question  not  for  us  to  answer.  It  is  certain  that 
they  will  be  imitated,  and  as  certain  that  they  will  be  looked 
upon  with  jealousy  and  enmity — misrepresented  and  plotted 
against  by  those  who  will  be  interested  to  destroy  them,  and 
perpetuate  their  own  power." 

Doctor  Cadwallader  seeing  that  many  of  his  guests  were 
evidently  disappointed  in  not  finding  the  entertainment  they 
expected  from  the  eccentricities  of  George  Frederick,  and 
concluding  that  it  was  only  when  the  wine  was  in,  that  the  hu 
mour  would  come  out,  addressed  the  tragedian  in  a  tone,  and 
with  the  intent,  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  company.  "  I 
have  had  my  professional  and  guardian  glances  unceasingly 
directed  to  you,  my  patient,  knowing  how  long  you  have  suf 
fered  from  your  late  illness,  and  I  perceive  that  you  are  more 
afraid  of  madeira  than  I  think  necessary." 

"  Doctor,"  said  Cooke,  with  a  glance  from  the  corner  of  his 
eyes  over  his  shoulder,  "  I  need  not  tell  a  man  of  your  expe 
rience,  that  'a  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire.'  I  believe  I  shall 
for  the  future  follow  the  example  of  this  venerable  gentleman 
at  my  elbow,  Mr.  SpifTard,  who  has,  like  myself,  in  early  life 
drank  so  freely  of  wine,  that  now,  to  qualify  it,  he  takes  nothing 
but  water." 

"  But,  as  you  have  not  yet  attained  his  venerable  age,  or 
had  either  opportunity  or  inclination  to  injure  yourself  in  that 
way,  I  advise,  as  your  physician,  that  the  water-drinking  be 
put  off  until  to-morrow." 

"  '  To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow.'  " 

"  So,  here's  a  bumper  toast.  The  first  cultivator  of  the  vine. 
I  prescribe  a  bumper  of  madeira  to  you,  and  one  of  Manhattan 
water  to  your  venerable  neighbour — unless  he  returns  to  his 
former  ways,  and  takes  wine  for  the  remainder  of  the  day — 
come,  fill !  Here's  to  the  memory  of  the  first  cultivator  of  the 

VOL.  i.  n  " 


1 74  A  dinner  parly  in  1811. 

Tine,  and  inventor  of  the  exhilarating  liquor  pressed  from  its 
fruit." 

Every  glass  was  filled  with  madeira,  except  that  of  the 
•water-drinker.  Every  one  repeated  the  toast  literally,  except 
Cooke,  who  added  the  name  of  "  Bacchus,"  as  the  inventor  of 
ihe  liquor  he  loved. 

"  Another  bumper  for  Mr.  Cooke,  as  a  punishment  for  alter 
ing  the  toast,"  cried  out  one  of  the  company  who  had  not  been 
so  cautious  in  his  libations  during  the  feast. 

"  I  submit  to  the  punishment.  I  have  generally  found  it 
easier  to  receive  than  to  pay.  I  am  bound  to  take  what  my 
physician  prescribes."  Arid  having  drank  a  second  bumper, 
he  added,  "  This  is  better  than  any  prescription  I  have  swal 
lowed  of  your  ordering  of  late,  my  dear  doctor.  Call  you  this 
punishment  V9 

"  I  think,  sir,"  said  Spiffard,  addressing  Cadwallader,  "  that 
Mr.  Cooke  ought  to  be  enjoined  to  take  a  tumbler  of  the  me 
dicine  Doctor  Davenport  prescribed  when  called  in  at  the  late 
consultation." 

"  That  would  be  punishment." 

"  And  you  deserve  it  for  robbing  the  inventor  of  wine  of  his 
due,  and  giving  it  to  another." 

"  What,  sirr,  what !     Would  you  transfer  the  worship  from 
Bacchus  to  any  other  hero  or  divinity  ?     Who,  sirr,   who  ? 
Who  but  the  jolly  god  invented  this  heart-cheererl" 
"  Cassio  says,  the  devil." 

•'  False  reading  ;  he  called  the  invisible  spirit  of  wine  by 
that  name — not  this  visible  and  beautiful  creature,  nor  its  cre 
ator.  Besides,  sirr,  that  was  when  his  head  ached." 

"  But,  sir,  I  appeal  to  Doctor  Cadwallader.  Who  did  you 
mean,  sir,  by  the  iirst  cultivator  of  the  vine  and  inventor  of  the 
wine-press  V 

"  Noah,  to  be  sure." 

"  What,  old  Captain  Noah  ?"  said  Cooke. 
"  Surely." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Cooke,"  said  the  governor,  "  I  fill  your  glass^ 
again,  arid  drink  with  you  to  Captain  Noah." 

"  With  all  my  heart.  I  will  do  him  all  the  justice  in  my 
power,  and  endeavour  to  make  up  for  my  unintentional  dis 
respect." 

"  '  O,  thou  invisible  spirit  of  wine  !"  '  slyly  whispered  Spif 
fard. 

"  I  do  not  wonder,"  Cooke  continued,  "  that  the  old  gentle 
man  exerted  his  wits  to  invent  wine  after  being  so  long  water- 
drenched.  A  good  rule  should  work  both  ways.  *  Mix  water 


JL  dinner  party  in  1811.  175 

with  your  wine,'  says  the  philosopher ;  if  the  rule  is  good,  then 
it  is  good  to  mix  wine  with  your  water." 

"Good,  good!" 

'*  Most  assuredly  I  am  not  an  admirer  of  that  word  '  mix  ;* 
but  these  grave  and  learned  doctors,  who  are  '  my  very  worthy 
and  approved  good  masters,'  say  (and  I  doubt  them  not,  though 
I  cannot  account  for  the  fact)  that  I  have  too  much  water  in 
my  system.  What,  then,  is  the  remedy  1  Captain  Noah's,  to 
be  sure.  Wine!  generous  wine  !" 

The  visible  wine  and  the  invisible  spirit  of  wine,  had  pro 
duced  very  visible  effect ;  and  but  for  the  interference  of  the 
young  Mentor  at  his  elbow,  the  convalescent  tragedian  would 
have  soon  shown  symptoms  of  his  old  complaint.  SpifFard, 
assisted  by  one  of  the  physicians,  contrived  to  substitute  a  de 
canter  of  wine-and-water  for  that  of  wine  which  was  at  his 
side,  and  by  filling  for  his  friend,  kept  him  in  that  moderate 
state  of  excitement  which  merely  exhibited  him  to  advantage. 

A  few  songs  were  introduced  ;  and  in  this  part  of  the  enter 
tainment  Spiffard  amply  contributed  ;  for  his  knowledge  of 
music,  and  stores  of  the  best  songs  of  every  description,  made 
him  an  invaluable  guest  at  any  musical  or  convivial  party,  and 
rendered  it  easy  for  him  to  prescribe  his  own  course,  and  per 
severe  in  it,  in  respect  to  his  water-drinking.  4  Nor  numbers, 
nor  examples,  with  him  wrought  to  swerve'  from  his  resolves. 

The  conversation  turned  naturally  upon  actors  and  acting. 
Cooke's  remarks  on  his  contemporaries  of  the  stage,  were  al 
ways  liberal — when  he  was  himself.  He  gave  Kemble  all  the 
praise  he  deserved,  although  it  was  evident  that  he  placed  him 
far  below  Mrs.  Siddons,  in  the  s,cale  of  histrionic  excellence- 
Garrick  and  Henderson  he  had  only  seen,  but  never  played 
with.  He  professed  to  aim  at  the  one  in  Richard,  and  the  other 
in  Falstaff.  In  Sir  Archy  and  Sir  Pertinax,  he  remembered 
their  author,  old  Macklin ;  but  he  played  them  even  better. 
When  descanting  on  the  merits  of  others,  he  undesignedly  im 
pressed  upon  his  hearers  a  conviction  of  his  own  pre-eminent 
talents  in  his  profession. 

Surely  actors  should  avoid  the  appearance  of  slighting  those 
who  preceded  them.  The  fame  of  an  actor  only  lives  in  the 
praise  of  those  who  follow  him.  He  leaves  no  impress  of  him 
self,  but  as  he  is  imitated  by  others.  We  are  apt  to  bestow  our 
admiration  on  those  who  "  strut  their  hour  on  the  stage"  before 
us,  and  doubt  the  testimony  of  writers  who  have  recorded  the 
merits  of  their  contemporaries.  This  was  not  a  failing  of 
Cooke's.  Happily  this  day  was  one  of  his  brightest.  He  ex 
erted  himself  to  please,  and  was  successful. 


176 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Conversation  and  coffee — Politeness  and  hartnony. 

"  Black  spirits  and  white,  blue  spirits  and  gray, 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle ;  ye  who  mingle  may. 

"  It  is  certain  that  either  wise  bearing,  or  ignorant  carriage  ;  is  caught  as 
men  take  diseases,  of  one  another:  therefore  let  men  take  care  of  their 
company." 

" Let  me  see  wherein 

My  tongue  hath  wronged  him  :  if  it  do  him  right, 
Then  hath  he  wronged  himself;  if  he  be  free, 
Why  then,  my  taxing  like  a  wild  goose  flies, 
Unclaimed  by  any  man." 

"  How  blest  are  we  that  are  not  simple  men! 
Yet  nature  might  have  made  me  as  these  are, 
Therefore  I  will  not  disdain." 

"  Their  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  to  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others." 

{t  Of  government  the  properties  to  unfold 

Would  seem  in  me  to  affect  speech  and  discourse. 

*  *  *  *  The  nature  of  our  people— our  city's  institutions — 

You  are  pregnant  in." 

:t  Sour-eyed  disdain  and  discord  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly 
That  you  shall  hate  it  both." 

"  Who  can  come  in  and  say  that  I  mean  her", 
When  such  as  she  is>,  such  js  her  neighbour." 

"  My  face  is  visor-like,  unchanging." — Shakspearc. 

THE  company  removed  early  from  the  dinner-table  and  th» 
Avine,  exchanging  the  fumes  of  (he  cigar  for  those  of  the  fra 
grant  berry,  the  exhilarations  of  the  decanter  and  the  song  tor 
those  of  the  tea-pot  and  the  music  of  female  conversation. 

The  handsome  general  left  the  dining-room  before  the  com 
pany  broke  up,  and  was  not  found  in  the  drawing  room.  Thitf 
gentleman  had  not  been  introduced  to  Spiffard  ;  and  although 
he  most  courteously  addressed  the  young  man  with  smiles  and 
a  manner  intended  to  be  condescendingly  encouraging,  the 
water-drinker  shrunk  from  him  with  a  sensation  approaching 


Conversation  and  coffee,  $c.  177 

to  something  between  dread  and  loathing.  He  answered  his 
questions  politely,  but  with  great  brevity,  and  withdrew  his 
eyes  from  the  fine  features  and  mild  glances  as  soon  as  his 
unwilling  reply  to  the  superficial  remark  would  in  decency 
permit.  Yet,  by  a  strange  anomaly  of  feeling,  he  looked  for 
this  man  in  the  drawing-room,  and  seemed  to  be  relieved  when 
he  discovered  his  absence.  Cooke  was  here  really  the  lion  of 
the  evening.  He  was  fully  alive  to  the  pleasures  of  society, 
and  in  that  happy  stale  of  confidence  and  self-possession,  which 
prompted  to  eccentric  sallies,  and  enabled  him  to  meet  on 
equal  ground  the  opposition  of  those  who  did  not  choose  to  sub 
mit  to  his  occasional  dogmatism.  The  water-drinker  was  al 
ways  the  same,  when  not  assailed  on  his  weak  side  :  and  he 
was  at  this  time  in  unusual  spirits.  His  musical  powers  and  his 
conversation  had  produced  their  full  effect,  and  he  was  pleased 
to  see  that  the  man,  in  whom  he  took  so  great  interest,  had 
escaped  unscathed  from  the  dangers  of  his  recent  situation. 

Doctor  Cadwallader,  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  popular 
physicians  of  the  city,  well  known  and  highly  esteemed  in  every 
literary  as  well  as  fashionable  circle,  had  issued  invitations 
very  generally  for  this  evening,  and  Mrs.  Cadwallader  had 
done  the  same  ;  consequently  the  suite  of  apartments  were  filled 
by  the  young  of  both  sexes,  companions  or  admirers  of  the 
young  ladies,  and  with  professional  men  of  every  description, 
somo  of  whom  were  expressly  invited  for  the  purpose  of  meet 
ing  the  famous  tragedian  :  the  females  of  the  doctor's  family 
alone  formed  a  brilliant  circle  ;  but,  in  addition,  the  rooms  were 
almost  crowded  by  belles  and  their  mamas,  who  wished  to  see 
Richard  and  Sir  Pertinax  surrounded  by  a  dramatis  personse  of 
every-day  life. 

Cooke  went  through  the  forms  of  introduction  with  all  the 
easy  ceremony  of  the  old  school,  and  by  the  suavity  of  his 
manners,  softness  of  his  voice,  good  humoured  smiles,  and 
occasional  archness,  won  the  hearts  of  the  old  ladies,  and  the 
admiration  of  the  young. 

'*  I  never  will  believe,"  whispered  Mrs.  Temple  in  the  ear 
of  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  *'  I  never  will  believe  that  such  a  plea 
sant  old  gentleman  can  be  guilty  of  the  acts  which  have  been 
attributed  to  him." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  elegant  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  "  these 
men  are  strange  deceitful  creatures.  Even  our  husbands  are 
not  always  the  same  amiable  pieces  of  perfection  they  once 
were,  or  as  we  wish  them  to  be." 

Mrs.  Temple's   husband  seldom  came  home   sober,  aad 


178  Conversation  and  coffee. 

never  in  tolerable  humour  unless  fortune  had  favoured  him  at 
the  pharoah  or  brag  table. 

Cooke  was  at  this  moment  examining  a  miniature  picture  (by 
the  accomplished  and  amiable  Malbone)  that  Miss  Cadwal- 
lader  had  asked  his  opinion  of.  He  immediately  saw  that  it 
was  the  portrait  of  the  lovely  girl  herself. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  I  can  only  say  that  it  is  extremely 
beautiful  and  extremely  like.  I  must  confess  my  ignorance 
of  all  that  relates  to  this  delightful  art.  Likeness  I  can  see. 
I  peer  at  those  soft  eyes  and  almost  imagine  that  through  the 
long  lashes  they  are  peeping  at  me — I  look  at  these  swelling 
ruby  lips  and  think  they  are  breathing  odours,  and  just  opening 
to  accost  me — but,  when  I  turn  to  the  original,  I  spy  a  thousand 
faults  in  the  copy." 

"  What  are  they,  Mr.  Cooke?" 

"  I  cannot  perceive  the  laugh  that  lurks  between  the  eye 
lids,  and  about  the  dimpling  cheeks  or  curling  lips — there 
now — it  is  less  and  less  like.  I  cannot  find  the  rows  of  pearl 
that  should  be  here — or  the  blush  that  spreads  and  deepens 
every  moment — truly  the  artist's  colours  have  no  life  in  them  ! 
What  do  you  think,  madam?"  addressing  Mrs.  Cadwallader, 
who  then  joined  them. 

"  You  do  the  artist  injustice,  and  flatter  Louisa  at  his  ex 
pense." 

"  Nay,  mama,  I  think  Mr.  Cooke  is  a  very  good  judge  of 
painting,''  said  the  laughing  Louisa. 

"  If  my  friend  Pope  were  here,"  said  Cooke,  "  he  could 
talk  learnedly  on  painting,  as  he  is  not  only  actor  but  painter, 
and  in  this  same  style.  He  would  point  out  the  merits  and 
demerits  of  this  very  beautiful  portrait — for  such  I  can  see 
that  it  is — although  I  can  see  that  nature  possesses  many  more 
beauties  than  art  has  portrayed.  He  could  descant  on  colour 
and  keeping,  on  tint  and  touch,  and  tell  you  why  this  eye  does 
not  spcrrkle  like  that,"  and  he  archly  turned  his  own  up  to  the 
laughing  eyes  of  the  lovely  girl — "  but  I  have  no  skill  in  these 
things — I  can  paint  no  face  but  my  own,  and  burnt  cork  and 
brick-dust  are  the  principal  colours  I  require." 

"  But,  Mr.  Cooke,"  said  Mrs.  Temple,  "  is  not  every  actor 
necessarily  a  painler?  Is  he  not  obliged  to  conceive  an  image 
of  the  figure,  costume,  expression,  of  the  character  he  wishes 
to  represent,  and  to  make  his  own  appearance  conform 
thereto  ?" 

"  He  ought  to  do  all  this,  madam,  and  he  ought  to  under 
stand  grouping,  that  himself  and  those  acting  with  him  may 


Politeness  and  harmony.  179 

present  true  and  graceful  pictures  to  the  spectators  ;  but  he  is 
generally  content  to  leave  the  first  to  the  wardrobe-keeper  or 
tailor,  and  the  last  to  the  stage-manager  or  prompter." 

"  I  feel  confident,"  said  Dr.  Hosack,  who  with  Cadwallader 
joined  the  group,  "  that  you,  and  your  friends  Cooper  and 
Kemble,  do  not  trust  for  stage  grouping,  or  dressing,  to  the 
prompter  or  the  tailor." 

"  Why  Tom  and  black  Jack  arc  generalissimoes  :  they  com 
mand  by  virtue  of  proprietorship." 

"  And  you,"  said  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  "  by  talent.  When 
you  call  up  the  image  of  Richard,  lago,  FalstafT,  or  Sir  Per- 
tinax,  you  see  in  imagination  a  countenance  and  costume  con 
forming  to  the  character,  in  the  same  manner  that  the  painter 
who  wishes  to  represent  on  his  canvass  a  madonna  or  a  saint." 

"  I  understand  you,  madam ;  so  far  the  actor  is  a  painter. 
Both  must  be  imaginative ;  or  steal,  as  both  do,  from  those 
who  went  before  them.  But  the  actor  must  paint,  as  the  savage 
does,  on  his  proper  person." 

"  Or  as  we  do,"  said  Louisa,  4<  when  preparing  for  a  party 
or  ball." 

*'  No,  no  :  your  care  is,  only,  that  grace  and  beauty  may 
have  fair  play ;  and  nature  appear  in  her  true  loveliness,  ac 
companied  by  art,  not  disguised  by  it.  But  the  actor  must 
be  himself  the  mere  board  on  which  to  daub  the  character  he 
is  to  exhibit — a  walking  piece  of  paste-board  or  bundle  of 
rags.  He  bears  his  own  work  about  with  him  on  his  own 
person,  and  is  exposed,  with  it,  to  be  hissed,  or  hooted,  or  pelt 
ed,  by  the  congregated  mob  of  a  playhouse." 

"  Or  to  see  the  effects  of  his  skill,"  said  Cadwallader,  "  re 
flected  in  the  eyes  of  beauty,  and  hear  the  enthusiastic  plaudits 
of  the  thousands  attracted  by  his  celebrity." 

Spiffard  was  in  another  part  of  the  room  with  Littlejohn  ; 
well  pleased  that  his  aged  friend  could  give  him  the  characters 
of  the  various  individuals  who  were  grouped  in  the  apartments 
or  occasionally  entering.  Mr.  Littlejohn  did  not  appear  averse 
to  playing  the  part  of  Asmodeus  for  the  gratification  of  his 
young  acquaintance. 

"  Who  is  that  tall  and  heavy  moulded  stupid  looking  man, 
who  is  gazing  around  him  with  an  inquiring  and  sinister  eye, 
and  an  air  of  vulgar  confidence?" 

"  Bless  me,"  said  Asmodeus,  "  what  brings  him  here  ?  He 
has  mistaken  the  doctor's  house  for  a  political  tavern-hall,  or 
this  congregated  assembly  for  a  ward  meeting.  He  is  out  of 
place  here.'' 


180  Conversation  and  coffee. 

"  Nature  has  been  bountiful  to  him  in  bulk." 

"  And  extremely  parsimonious  in  every  intellectual  quality, 
except  cunning  ;  but  the  deficiency  is  supplied  by  dollars  and 
cents  ; — brawn,  cunning,  and  impudence,  qualify  him  as  a 
brawler  at  an  election,  or  an  intriguer  in  the  lobbies  of  the  legis 
lature  ;  consequently  he  is  a  man  of  no  small  influence.  Aha! 
I  see  now  what  has  brought  him  here.  He  has  found  the  go- 
Ternor  and  has  taken  him  aside." 

"  Has  he  influence  with  him  ?" 

**  Yes.  Because  he  can  serve  him :  and  our  democratic 
governor  knows,  that  in  our  democratic  government  the  work 
of  the  ruler  must  be  performed  by  tools  of  forms  as  various  as 
their  worth.'' 

"  Do  you  not  apply  the  term  democracy  and  democratic 
government,  incorrectly  ?" 

"  In  my  opinion,"  said  the  merchant,  "  a  democratic  go 
vernment  is  one  in  which  the  people  rule,  whether  by  elected 
representatives  or  in  their  own  persons.  In  the  latter  case  it 
may  be,  and  has  been,  an  odious  tyranny ;  in  the  former  it  is 
the  perfection  of  government  by  law.  Both  are,  in  rny  accep 
tation  of  the  term,  democracies;  because  the  people  govern, 
sind  there  are  no  hereditary  rulers,  and  no  privileged  class. 
When  I  speak  of  democrat,  I  mean  one  who  opposes  all 
usurpations  upon  the  people's  rights,  and  submits  himself  to 
the  laws." 

"  Ha !"  exclaimed  SpifFard, "  there  is  our  friend  the  manager. 
Who  is  that  with  him  1" 

"  That,"  said  Littlejohn,  "  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  best  painter 
in  the  United  States." 

'*  You  forget  Stuart,  sir," 

"  Every  man  has  his  taste  :  I  like  that  young  man's  pic 
tures  better  than  Stuart's." 

*'  You  do  not  tell  us  his  name." 

"  Sully.  Did  you  never  hear  Mr.  Cooper,  your  manager, 
jspeak  of  him." 

**  Not  that  I  remember.     They  appear  intimate." 

11  Did  the  manager  never  mention  any  particulars  of  the 
painter's  life  ?" 

44  No,  sir." 

"  That  is  because  he  must  have  been  the  hero  of  his  own 
tale.  Sir,  one  of  the  first  acts  of  his  management  was  to  exert 
his  influence  and  advance  funds  to  bring  forward  the  young 
painter  by  an  opportunity  of  exerting  his  talents. 


Politeness  and  harmony.  ISi 

"  Bravo!  But,  sir,  when  you  speak  of  our  best  painters, 
you  forget  that  we  have  West,  Copley,  Trumbull." 

"  West  and  Copley  have  abandoned  us,  and  Trumbull  has 
been  many  years  a  resident  of  London.  If  I  had  thought  of 
the  beautiful  pictures  painted  by  him,  which  I  saw  in  this  city 
ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  representing,  in  small  historical  paint 
ing,  some  scenes  of  our  revolution,  I  should  not  have  placed 
any  one  before  him." 

"  There  is  another  American,"  said  Spiffard,  "  now  painting 
in  London,  that,  I  think,  excels  them  all." 

"Indeed!    Who?" 

44  Allston." 

"  And  when  I  visited  Philadelphia,  I  saw  the  works  of  a 
boy — I  think  his  name  was  Leslie — who,  in  scenes  of  delicate 
humour,  promises  to  stand  unrivalled." 

This  conversation  was  interrupted,  very  much  to  Spiffard's 
surprise,  by  the  approach  of  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  Mrs.  Temple, 
and  four  or  five  young  ladies,  with  as  many  laughing  girls, 
whose  sparkling  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  comedian. 

"Mr.  Spiffard,"  said  the  matron,  "your  friend  Cooke  has 
assured  these  girls,  and  given  us  all  assurance,  (for  we  are 
equally  interested,)  that  you  will  favour  us  with  a  specimen  of 
your  skill  on  the  harpsichord,  and  some  of  your  songs.  I  have 
been  appointed  to  make  the  request." 

"  What  he  has  promised,  I  will  endeavour  to  perform, 
madam.  His  assurance  of  my  will  is  correct,  and  of  that  he  is 
a  judge  ;  of  my  skill,  I  disclaim  his  judgment.  He  cannot  tell 
the  difference  between  a  street-ballad-bawler  and  a  Billington 
or  Mara.  You  shall  judge  of  the  worth  of  his  commendation, 
by  the  precipitate  retreat  he  will  make  as  soon  as  he  hears  the 
ftound  of  the  instrument." 

So  saying,  the  young  actor,  attended  by  the  group  of  female?, 
and  by  his  friend  Littlejohn,  moved  towards  the  harpsichord. 
Cooke  walked  into  the  adjoining  apartment,  which  was  farthest 
from  the  common  door  of  entrance  for  the  company.  The  in 
strument  at  which  Spiffard  prepared  to  place  himself,  was  oppo 
site  to  this  door,  and  his  back,  of  course,  turned  to  it ;  but 
unfortunately,  he  cast  his  eyes  upon  a  mirror,  suspended  over 
the  harpsichord,  and  saw  an  apparition  which  deprived  him  of 
the  power  of  motion,  as  though  he  had  been  transformed  to  a 
statue  of  marble.  The  chord  was  struck  which  shook  his  rea 
son.  His  eyes  were  fixed  ou  the  mirror ;  his  face  was  colour- 
Jess  ;  his  hands  fell  upon  the  keys  of  the  instrument,  which 
emitted  a  discordant  sound,  and  his  pale  lips  were  opened  as 

11* 


182  Conversation  and  coffee. 

he  gasped  for  breath.  The  gay  party  who  surrounded  him, 
stood  a  moment,  as  if  petrified:  their  eyes  followed  his  to  the 
mirror,  and  they  instantly  turned  them  to  the  door  ;  there  the 
cause  of  his  strange  conduct  was  in  some  measure  accounted 
for,  by  what  they  saw. 

The  remarkably  tall,  well  dressed,  and  handsome  gentleman, 
who  had  been  placed  opposite  SpifFard  at  the  dinner-table,  and 
who  had  been  addressed  as  general,  but  whose  name  he  had 
not  heard,  entered  the  room  with  a  female  hanging  on  his  arm, 
whose  rich  and  splendid  attire,  tall,  slender  figure,  as  well  as 
the  wild  expression  of  her  countenance,  were  sufficient  to 
attract  a  stranger's  attention,  but  not  to  account  for  the  young 
man's  extraordinary  emotion. 

The  general  advanced,  bowing  courteously,  with  the  same 
unchangeable  face,  that  seemed,  at  table,  to  defy  scrutiny,  and 
only  express  a  desire  to  please.  His  companion  saluted  Mrs. 
Cadwallader,  who  received  her  as  if  taken  by  surprise.  The 
younger  ladies  withdrew,  and  the  general's  consort,  quitting  his 
arm,  followed  them. 

The  attention  of  those  who  were  near  the  musician  wras  again 
attracted  to  him  by  the  exclamation  of  '*  My  mother!"  and  by 
his  falling  senseless  on  the  floor. 

Here  was  "  confusion  worse  confounded."  Doctor  Cad 
wallader,  who  was  advancing  to  meet  the  newly  arrived  guests, 
had  his  attention  called  to  Spiffard,  and,  with  Mr.  Littlejohn, 
ran  to  his  assistance.  Cooke,  as  we  have  seen,  had  retired  to 
the  next  room. 

Spiffard  having  recovered  sufficiently,  was  led  by  the  gentle 
men  into  a  private  apartment ;  but  the  doctor  was  called  away 
by  a  messenger  from  his  wife,  and  left  the  young  man  with  the 
merchant. 

After  a  few  words  interchanged  between  Mrs.  Cadwallader 
and  her  husband,  he  sought  the  lady  whose  appearance  had 
produced  this  strange  effect  on  Spiffard.  He  found  her  seated 
on  a  sofa  with  three  of  his  daughters,  and  apparently  reprov 
ing  them.  The  girls  willingly  gave  place  to  their  lather,  who, 
after  a  few  minutes,  left  her,  proceeded  to  the  general,  and  ap 
peared  to  speak  to  him  very  earnestly. 

"  I  wish,  doctor,  you  would  persuade  her  to  return  home  ; 
she  is  very  nervous.  The  coach  is  still  at  the  door.  You  have 
great  influence  over  her."  And  he  turned  to  a  gentleman  near 
him  with  exquisite  nonchalance,  and  continued  a  conversation 
he  had  been  previously  engaged  in,  respecting  the  want  of  re 
finement  in  American  society. 


Politeness  and  harmony.  183 

The  doctor  cast  a  scornful  glance  at  him — seemed  to  hesi 
tate,  as  if  debating  internally  how  to  proceed — then  returned  to 
the  lady,  arid  a  few  minutes  after,  they  were  seen  leaving  the 
room  together. 

The  general  had  continued  to  address  his  neighbour,  without 
appearing  to  notice  the  conduct  or  departure  of  Cadwallader. 

"  You,  Mr.  Transcript,  not  having  resided  any  time  abroad, 
are  not  conscious  of  the  infinite  distance  that  the  people  of  this 
country  are  behind  those  of  Europe  in  all  that  pertains  to  po 
liteness,  and,  I  may  say,  civilization  in  general.  But  as  I  have 
passed  most  of  my  life  in  Paris,  I  am  incessantly  shocked ;  it 
plays  the  devil  with  my  wife's  nerves,  to  find  a  coarseness  of 
manners  in  the  best  society,  and  a  vulgar  imitation  of  what  she 
has  been  used  to  at  home,  that  is  sometimes  ridiculous,  and 
always  disgusting." 

The  person  to  whom  this  was  addressed,  did  not  seem  to 
relish  it ;  and  his  face  not  being  so  well  disciplined  as  the  gene 
rals,  he  coloured,  as  if  offended,  and  showed  other  signs  of 
uneasiness  ;  but  as  the  general  was  tall  and  handsome,  and 
very  well  dressed,  and  withal,  his  senior  by  many  years,  he  only 
remarked,  "  I  think,  sir,  our  countrymen  always  become  ridicu 
lous,  or  worse,  by  imitating  Europeans  either  in  manners  or 
opinions." 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Littlejohn  could  not  but  express  his 
surprise,  when  alone  with  Spiffard,  at  the  sudden  and  strange 
illness  that  had  overcome  him  ;  for  he  had  observed  the  change 
in  the  young  man's  countenance,  before  he  fell,  fainting,  from 
his  seat. 

"  Why,  my  young  friend,  what  is  the  matter  ?  What  over 
came  you  so  strangely  and  suddenly  1" 

"  If  I  did  not  know  that  she  died  years  ago,  I  should  say  thai 
woman  is  my  mother  !" 

"  What  woman  ?" 

"  She,  so  richly  dressed — so  unlike  every  other  person  in 
the  room ;  she  who  entered,  leaning  for  support  on  the  man 
you  called  general." 

"  O,  Mrs.  Williams.  Were  you  not  introduced  to  the 
general?" 

"  No  !  nor  wished  to  be." 

"  He  is  called  a  very  handsome  and  very  polite  man.  A 
traveller,  and  man  of  the  world." 

"  His  face  appeared  to  me  like  a  beautiful  mask,  and  I  could 
not  but  fancy  that  it  was  kept  on  to  hide  deformity." 

"  You  show  yourself  a  physiognomist." 


184  Conversation  und  coffee. 

"  It  is  rather  feeling  than  observation." 

•'  General  Williams  and  his  wife  move  among  our  fashionable 
people  ;  but  they  are  becoming  rather  remarkable." 

**  They  are  not  Americans?" 

"  He,  is.  He  is  one  who  has  been  seen  by  Europeans  wan 
dering  abroad,  and  from  his  specious  appearance  and  manners, 
has  been  unhappily  considered  a  fair  specimen  of  his  country, 
although  ever  villilying  her  institutions,  and  belying  her  char 
acter,  in  word  and  deed.  l  Leaving  the  fear  of  heaven  on  the 
left  hand,'  he  has  been  '  fain  to  shuffle,  to  hedge,  and  to  lurch,' 
to  keep  up  false  appearances,  or  minister  to  depraved  appetites. 
He  married  in  England,  and  now  lives  in  a  style  of  splendour 
betokening  riches,  probably  derived  from  his  wife.  Courteous 
behaviour,  and  costly  entertainments,  have  ranked  them  with 
those  who  rank  themselves  highest  among  us  ;  but  those  who 
look  beyond  the  surface,  or  see,  even  there,  indications  of 
something  within,  not  corresponding  to  the  without,  are  giving 
symptoms  of  shyness.  He  is  noted  for  imitating  the  aristoc 
racy  of  Europe,  in  bows,  smiles,  and  sarcasms ;  and  her  ap 
pearance  is  such,  not  unfrequently,  in  public,  as  may  be  thought 
at  least  equivocal.  But  why  should  such  an  apparition  effect 
you  in  this  extraordinary  manner?" 

"  The  resemblance  to  my  mother  both  in  person,  feature, 
manner,  style  of  head-dress,  and  that  indescribable  expression 
of  countenance  which  you  have  hinted  at,  took  me  by  surprise. 
You  are  aware  of  my  susceptibility  on  a  subject  that  has 
entwined  itself  with  my  very  being  ;  and  this  extraordinary  like 
ness  to  one  so  connected  with  all  my  early  associations,  over 
powered  my  reason.  Features,  complexion,  eyes,  dark  glossy 
hair ;  my  mother  had  a  sister,  but  she  was  no  heiress — she 
could  not — " 

"  Such  resemblances  and  coincidences  frequently  occur." 

"  I  am  ashamed  that  I  have  caused  so  much  trouble  and  con 
fusion." 

"  You  have  told  me  of  the  misery  your  father  endured,  and 
have  spoken  of  the  cause.  He  did  not  brave  the  opinion  of  the 
world." 

"  O  no  !  He  bore  his  sorrow  patiently,  and  endeavoured  to 
hide  its  cause." 

*'  But  here  is  one  who  looks  as  if  that  did  not  exist,  which  all 
sees,  and  he  ostentatiously  exhibits." 

'l  How  can  such  conduct  be  accounted  for?" 

"  It  would  appear  at  first  view  unaccountable  ;  but  the  mind 


I  •  • . 

Politeness  and  harmony  185 

f>f  man  is  ever  active — and  that  which  is  strange,  leads  to  sus 
picions  and  conjectures,  all  perhaps,  unfounded." 

*'  And  you  say  this  man  married  in  England  ?" 

*'  Yes.  But  except  the  fortuitous  resemblance  you  spoke 
of,  all  this  does  not  touch  you  so  nearly  as  it  does  those  who 
have  been  the  intimates  of  the  parties.  Come,  let  us  return  to 
the  company." 

"  I  am  sick — sick,  sir.  I  must  go  home.  I  will  explain  ta 
you  another  time.  But,  notwithstanding  discrepant  circum 
stances,  I  cannot  discard  a  belief  that  I  have  seen  the  sister  of 
my  mother." 

"  Discard  all  unpleasant  thoughts  ;  you  owe  an  apology  to 
our  kind  hostess  ;  and  see,  here  she  appears,  anxiously  looking 
for  you." 

Mrs.  Cadwallader  having  ascertained  that  Spiffard  had  reco 
vered;  now  joined  them,  and  exacted  his  promise  to  return  to 
the  drawing-room  ;  and  after  answering  a  question  of  Mr.  Lit- 
tlejohn's,  by  telling  him  that  Mrs.  Williams  had  gone  home, 
left  the  friends  to  follow  at  their  leisure. 


186 


CHAPTER  XX. 

J\fidnight,  and  an  apparition, 

"And  didst  thpu  not,  when  she  was  gone  down  stairs,  desire  me  to  be  no 
more  so  familiarity  with  such  poor  people." 

"  I  myself  could  make  a  chough  of  as  deep  chat." 
<(  But  this  is  worshipful  society." 

"It  is  said,  labour  in  thy  vocation ;  which  is  as  much  as  to  say,  let  the 
magistrates  be  labouring  men  ;  and  therefore  should  we  be  magistrates." 

"  George. — Thou  hast  hit  it ;  for  there's  no  better  sign  of  a  brave  mind, 
than  a  hard  hand." — Shakspeare. 

The  madness  of  a  lawless  mob, 

Is  rife  to  do  the  devil's  job  ; 

More  fierce,  more  pittiless,  more  fell, 

Than  any  king  that  groans  in  hell. — Anon. 

"Approve  the  best,  and  follow  what  I  approve." 

"  Love 
Leads  up  to  Heaven,  is  both  the  way  and  guide." — Milton. 

"  A  young  negro  look  our  horses,  with  that  affectation  of  extreme  polite 
ness  and  good  breeding,  which  is  so  highly  amusing  in  many  of  his  colour, 
and  which  inclines  me  to  think  that  they  appreciate  the  character  of  a  fine 
gentleman,  more  than  any  part  of  the  community." — Latrobe. 

DOCTOU  CADWALLADER,  whose  patient  she  was,  having  con 
ducted  Mrs.  Williams  home,  returned  to  the  company,  and 
found  the  general  bowing,  smiling,  conversing,  or  listening, 
apparently  as  much  at  ease  as  if  nothing  had  happened  in  any 
way  extraordinary.  The  doctor  passed  him  without  speaking, 
and  assiduously  shunned  him  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening. 

Mrs.  Cadwaliader  took  her  hushancl  aside,  and  spoke  to  him 
with  warmth  in  a  low  tone.  His  reply  wag,  "  Never  again  ! 
But  where,"  added  he,  "  is  the  young  gentleman  who  fainted 
so  unaccountably  at  her  appearance  ?" 

"  Still  with  Mr.  Littlejohn,  in  your  study." 

She  joined  a  group  of  ladies,  and,  at  the  moment,  Littlejohn 
and  Spiffard  entered,  the  latter  intending  to  make  his  apologies, 


Midnight,  and  an  apparition.  187 

and  retire  ;  but  his  intentions  were  prevented  by  the  doctor, 
who  immediately  addressed  him  with  inquiries,  and  cheerful 
assurances. 

"  It  is  strange,  Mr.  Spiffard,  that  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Wil 
liams  should  have  such  an  effect  upon  you.  Gentlemen  of 
your  profession  see  such  a  variety  of  character,  that  one  might 
expect  you  to  be  proof  against  any  exhibition.  I  am  sorry 
that  my  house  should  have  been  the  theatre  where  such  a 
scene  occurred." 

"  My  apology  must  be,  sir,  that  I  saw  or  fancied  a  resem 
blance  to  a  person  in  whom  I  was  formerly  much  interested. 
The  sudden  recurrence  of  images  exceedingly  painful — threw 
me  off  my  guard  and  overpowered  mind  and  body.  I  hope 
you  will  excuse  and  forget  my  behaviour.  I  wish  to  apologize 
to  Mrs.  Cadwallader  and  then  steal  away,  unnoticed.  I  have 
caused  a  great  confusion  where  only  pleasure  ought  to  reign." 

"  No,  no.  You  were  not  the  cause.  Why  should  you  think 
more  of  the  affair  when  you  see  how  coolly  the  general  takes 
it.  He  is  a  better  actor  than  you  are." 

"  That  may  well  be,  sir." 

"  At  least"  said  Littlejohn,  "  on  the  great  stage,  where  all 
are 'merely  players.'  Williams,  like  the  old  greek  actors, 
plays  in  a  mask.  If  I  am  not  mistaken  in  Mr.  Spiffard  he  is 
only  an  actor  in  the  mimic  world,  and  has  no  disguises  for  the 
great  masquerade  of  real  life.  My  young  friend  will  excuse 
me,  I  hope,  for  saying,  that,  my  attachment  to  him,  recent  as 
our  acquaintance  is,  proceeds  principally  from  a  conviction 
that  in  private  life  he  is  no  actor.  He  appears  to  me  to  be  a 
creature  without  disguise  himself,  arid  without  suspicion  of  dis 
guise  in  others." 

Spiffard  looked  serious,  paused  a  moment,  then  replied,  "As 
I  feel  the  necessity  of  speaking  of  myself,  permit  me  to  say, 
that,  at  my  first  entrance  into  life  as  a  man,  I  found  the  com 
mon  opinion  in  respect  to  players  was,  that  they  were  more 
artificial  in  their  intercourse  with  the  world  than  other  men  ; 
and  having  from  my  earliest  infancy  a  most  devout  love  of 
truth,  I  determined  that  my  love  of  the  drama  should  not  inter 
fere  with  what  I  considered  the  very  essence  of  moral  worth. 
I  have  been  and  I  trust  I  shall  always  remain,  rather  one  that 
'  wears  his  heait  upon  his  sleeve  for  daws  to  peck  at,'  than  a 
hypocrite  or  an  actor  in  my  intercourse  with  society ;  perhaps 
these  feelings  may  render  my  manners  less  acceptable,  but  I 
would  rather  be  esteemed  unpolished  by  others,  than  know 
myself,  false." 


188  Midnight,  and  an  apparition. 

The  doctor  shook  the  young  man  by  the  hand  cordially,  and 
after  a  little  more  conversation,  persuaded  him  to  remain,  for 
at  least  a  part  of  the  evening.  Cooke,  who  had  been  engaged 
in  chat  with  Governor  Tompkins  and  knew  nothing  of  what  had 
befallen  Spiffard,  advanced  from  the  inner  apartment  with  his 
companion.  Littlejohn  introduced  the  two  last  mentioned,  and 
the  conversation  that  the  Governor  and  the  tragedian  had  been 
engaged  in,  which  was  theatrical,  was  continued  ;  until  Wil 
liams,  with  his  courtly  smiles  approached  and  joined  them. 
Cadwallader  walked  away.  Doctors  Hosack,  McLean,  and 
Francis  advanced,  and  the  first  accosted  Tompkins  with  a 
question  relative  to  the  western  part  of  the  state.  Spiflard 
shrunk  from  the  courteous  general's  approach,  and  appeared  to 
place  Littlejohn  between  him  and  the  man  of  bows,  as  a  safe 
guard.  No  introduction  took  place.  The  frank  and  urbane 
manners  of  the  governor  led  to  ease  and  cheerful  chat,  as  was 
customary  wherever  he  came  ;  and  a  colloquy  ensued,  of  which 
we  will  endeavour  to  give  the  reader  a  part,  at  the  risk  of  hold 
ing  him  too  long  from  the  stirring  incidents  of  our  story. 

Doctor  Hosack's  inquiries  led  to  the  first  subject  of  discus 
sion. 

"  Before  I  was  married,"  observed  Littlejohn,  "  I  indulged 
jrny  propensity  to  travel,  which  has  always  been  very  great." 

"  I  thought,  sir,  you  had  never  been  in  Europe,"  said  Wil 
liams. 

'*  Never,  sir,  nor  in  Asia  or  Africa.  My  first  wish  was  to 
gain  a  knowledge  of  my  native  land  ;  hoping  afterwards  to  see 
others,  when  qualified  to  make  comparisons.  My  most  ardent 
desire  at  that  time,  governor,  was  to  pry  into  the  manners, 
and  study  the  character  of  the  aborigines." 

"  The  opportunities  for  that  study  are  much  greater  now," 
said  Tompkins.  "  I  have,  probably,  while  travelling  the  circuit 
when  I  was  a  judge,  passed  over  more  Indian  ground  than  you 
could  penetrate  through  in  your  early  days,  by  any  effort  that 
a  white  man  might  then  be  able  to  make." 

"  True,  sir,  but  not  find  so  many  Indians." 

"  They  have  been  sadly  abused  and  cheated,"  said  Williams. 

The  merchant  continued.  "  My  first  journey  was  made  un 
der  the  wing  of  your  predecessor,  Governor  George  Clinton, 
when  he  made  our  treaty  with  the  six  nations,  which  opened 
the  way  for  that  immense  display  of  the  arts  of  civilization, 
now  rendering  the  then  wilderness,  from  the  Mohawk  to  Lake 
Erie  and  from  the  St.  Lawrence  to  the  Alleghanies,  a  land 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey  ;  teeming  with  beings  united  as 


Midnight,  and  an  apparition.  189 

brethren  and  cultivating  science  while  they  cultivate  the  soil. 
I  then  saw  enough  of  the  red  men  to  excite  my  curiosity  in 
tensely  ;  and  I  prevailed  upon  one  of  the  interpreters,  (a  white 
man  who,  when  a  child  had  been  carried  off  and  adopted  by 
those  who  murdered  his  parents,)  to  be  my  guide  into  that 
country  of  the  west,  which  although  now  smiling  with  orchards, 
gardens,  meadows  and  corn-fields ;  studded  with  villages, 
towns  and  cities  ;  was  then  an  almost  impenetrable  thicket, 
forbidden  to  the  white  man  unless  he  passed  over  it  with  fire 
and  sword.  With  this  guide,  and  after  the  treaty  which  open 
ed  my  path,  I  commenced  my  journey  ;  and  I  look  back  upon 
it  as  the  most  delightful  portion  of  my  life  ;  probably  because 
the  most  teeming  with  novelty,  at  an  age  when  all  is  new." 

"  But,"  said  Williams,  ".I  should  think  it  very  monotonous  ; 
and  peculiarly  unprofitable,  unless  it  led  to  a  speculation  in 
furs." 

"  My  speculations,  although  a  merchant,  have  been  aimed 
to  penetrate  beyond  the  skin,  or  any  other  covering,  whether 
in  the  desert  or  the  drawing-room.  The  speculations  I  then 
made,  and  the  knowledge  I  obtained  of  facts,  traditions,  cus 
toms,  manners,  religion,  superstition,  impostures,  (for  there 
are  impostors  even  among  uncivilized  men,)  most  unblushing 
and  steady-faced  impostors,  wearing  masks  more  impenetrable 
than  any  I  have  met  with  in  refined  society : — fellows  who, 
though  never  trusted  as  leaders,  have  an  influence  in  savage 
life,  as  great  as  their  brethren  exercise  over  the  ignorant  in 
polite  society." 

"  The  result  of  your  inquiries  would  be  very  acceptable," 
said  the  governor. 

"  The  result  of  my  inquiries,  at  that  time,  and  some  little 
since,  compared  with  what  I  can  gather  from  books,  has  pro 
duced  such  opinions  respecting  the  character  of  our  Indians  as 
differ  from  those  of  most  men." 

44  And  they  are — " 

"  First,"  said  Hosack,  "let  me  help  you  to  a  glass  of  this 
Madeira. " 

"  And  I  will,"  said  Tompkins,  "  with  his  permission,  fill  a 
glass  for  Mr.  Cooke.  Cadwallader  keeps  the  best  madeira  in 
the  state.  What  do  you  think  of  that  colour,  Mr.  Cooke  1" 

"  It  is  brighter  than  that  of  an  Indian  painted  for  a  war-dance 
or  scalp-hunt." 

**  As  deceitful  and  as  deadly." 

"  O,  no !  Mr.  Spiffard,  when  not  abused,  it  is  as  hospitable 
and  as  generous,"  was  the  apology  for  the  bright  liquor 
made  by  doctor  McLean. 


190  Midnight,  and  an  apparition. 

At  this  moment  two  black  waiters  bowed  before  them, 
dressed  with  as  much  attention  to  the  fashion  of  the  day,  as 
any  person  in  the  room,  not  even  excepting  the  handscme 
general,  and  with  all  the  tact  of  European  footmen  they  pre 
sented  the  splendid  salvers,  bountifully  laden,  the  one  with 
porter,  wines  and  cordials,  the  other  with  cakes,  fruits,  and 
sandwiches. 

Character  is  shown  in  trifles.  Cooke  threw  down  a  bump 
er  at  one  toss  of  the  glass.  Tompkins  and  Hosack  held  up 
the  wine  and  looked  through  it  at  the  brilliant  chandelier  above 
them,  seeming  to  enjoy  the  flavour  through  the  eye  by  antici 
pation.  McLean  and  Francis  touched  glasses,  and  made  less 
of  the  imaginary  but  quite  as  much  of  the  real  taste  of  the  li 
quor.  Littlejohn  touched  his  lip  to  the  glass,  filled  for  him  by- 
doctor  Hosack,  and  put  it  away.  Williams  took  a  plate  and 
filled  it  with  eatables  after  tossing  off  a  tumbler  of  foaming 
brown-stout ;  and  Spiffard  gently  declined  the  proffered  tempta 
tions  by  an  inclination  of  the  head. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  sir,  your  opinion  of  our  red-skins." 
said  Tompkins. 

"  Or  rather,"  said  Cooke,  "  the  red-skins  of  the  forest.  We 
do  not  ask  our  own  characters." 

"  Our  Indians  appear  to  me  so  essentially  different  from  all 
the  other  races  of  men,"  said  the  merchant,  "  that  the  more  I 
have  examined  the  subject,  the  more  wonderful  it  has  appear 
ed  to  me.  The  wide  difference  between  the  savage  and  civil 
ized  man  is  obvious,  and  easily  explained.  But  the  very  na 
ture  of  the  American  savage,  is  the  opposite  in  many  respects 
to  the  savage  of  any  other  part  of  the  globe.  We  have  just 
seen  two  negroes,  whose  ancestors  were  brought  hither  as 
slaves,  by  the  ships  of  speculating  Christian  merchants,  free 
men  of  England  or  her  colonies — these  were  savages  in  the 
literal  acceptation  of  the  word — I  meant  the  African  negroes, 
not  the  European  merchants — " 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  for  the  commentary, "  said  Spiffard, 
smiling. 

"  Whatever  lexicographers  may  say,  I  never  could  confound 
the  words  savage  and  barbarian.  The  first  may  be  innocent, 
the  last  must  be  cruel." 

"  A  nice  distinction,  Mr.  Cooke." 

"  Sirr,  the  merchants  who  fit  out  slave-ships  are  barbarians. 
They  send  forth  their  hell-hounds  to  hunt  men  for  the  torture  of 
the  sugar  mill,  as  the  pious  cavallieros  of  Spain  halloo'd  on 
their  blood-hounds  in  chase  of  Indians  for  the  living-death  of 


Midnight,  and  an  apparition.  191 

their  gold-mines.     A  savage  may  be   a  barbarian — a   slave- 
dealer  must  be  one." 

The  general  had  finished  one  plate-full — taken  a  glass  of 
champagne,  and  was  helping  himself  to  another  supply  of 
jelly,  when  he  observed,  "the  African  is  benefited  by  the 
change,  in  my  opinion — as  for  slavery — all  are  slaves  but  those 
who  command  by  virtue  of  knowledge  or  riches." 

The  merchant  proceeded,  "The  fathers  of  these  two  cring 
ing  waiters  were  savages,  whose  black  skins  have  been  orna 
mented  with  lines,  circles,  and  crescents,  scored  by  a  flint- 
knife  or  sharp-edged  shell,  and  whose  intellectual  attainments 
might  be  estimated  by  the  insuperable  difficulty  of  teaching 
them  to  count  ten.  Now,  see  their  sons,  as  courteously  ser 
vile  as  the  descendants  of  the  European  kidnappers  who  en 
slaved  their  fathers ;  and  probably  as  well  versed  in  vice. 
They  imitate  the  white  in  every  species  of  foppery,  folly,  ab 
surdity  and  crime.  They  imitate  him  as  tyrants  and  as  slaves. 
Not  so  the  Indian.  The  conformation  of  his  head  shows  his 
great  superiority  to  the  imitative  negro  ;  and  he  feels  in  his 
woods  and  prairies  superior  to  the  encroaching  white-man, 
The  vices  of  civilization  brought  in  contact,  undermine  him 
and  he  perishes  ;  but  he  never  bows.  He  is  eloquent  and 
polite — never  cringing.  Two  young  Osages  or  Iroquois  could 
never  be  induced  to  carry  the  delicacies  of  a  drawing-room 
around,  like  those  black*,  and  bow,  and  cringe,  and  fly,  at  the 
nod  of  the  white  man,  although  they  see  the  white  man  do  it." 

"  They  are  not  too  prord  to  serve  us  as  warriors,  hunters,  or 
voyageurs."  remarked  the  governor. 

'4  True  :  but  without  servility.  They  are  at  home  in  the  fight 
the  chase  and  the  canoe.  They  adopt  our  weapons  and  excel 
in  their  use.  They  serve  us  in  the  forest  or  on  the  rivers  and 
lakes,  and  are  proud  to  show  their  superiority  to  us.  You 
could  not  by  the  training  of  centuries  bring  the  descendant  of 
an  Indian  to  bear  himself  like  yon  black." 

"  Or  like  yon  white,"  said  Cooke. 

"  Yet,  they  are  great  beaux,"  said  the  governor. 

"  True,  sir,  no  beau  in  this  assembly,  and  I  can  see  a  great 
many  periect  coxcombs,  is  more  attentive  to  ornamenting  his 
person  than  a  young  Indian  brave.  Both  their  men  and  women 
are  as  fond  of  show,  and  as  much  tickled  with  tinsel,  as  we 
are ;  but  the  Indian  would  not,  like  the  black,  or  the  white, 
dress  himself  like  a  chief  and  conduct  himself  like  a  slave." 

"  This  may  be  all  true,"  observed  Dr.  McLean,  "  but  is  it 
not  his  pride  that  makes  him  suppress  any  token  of  admiration 


192  Midnight  and  an  apparition. 

at  the  inventions  and  improvements  of  the  white  man,  although 
he  wishes  to  imitate  them  ?" 

"  He  values  his  independence  too  highly  to  pay  the  price." 

"  He  is  revengeful." 

"  As  a  white." 

"  Deceitful." 

"  To  destroy  his  enemy.  It  is  the  theory  and  practice  of 
European  warfare." 

"  He  is  a  drunkard,"  said  Spiffard,  "  and  to  obtain  the 
Means  of  excitement,  will  degrade  himself  to  become  a  liar 
and  a  thief." 

"  In  this,  I  acknowledge  that  he  imitates  his  white  neigh 
bours.  This  is  one  feature  which  puzzles  me  in  the  char 
acter  of  this  proud  people.  Their  religion,  their  liability 
to  be  deceived  by  false  prophets  and  conjurers,  and  some  other 
points  may  be  accounted  for;  but  their  obstinate  rejection  of  the 
truths  of  Christianity,  or,  if  apparently  received,  its  utter  ineffi- 
*acy,  is,  to  use  the  same  word,  another  puzzle.  The  present 
race  of  Europe  is  a  mixture  of  the  three  divisions  of  the  old 
world.  All  nations,  while  in  a  savage,  or  semi-savage  state, 
have  bowed  the  head  to  the  law  of  the  gospel.  At  first  to  the 
outward  forms,  and  by  degrees  to  the  spirit,  more  or  less,  ac 
cording  to  circumstances.  If  a  king,  chief,  or  leader,  was  in 
duced  to  receive  the  sign  of  the  cross,  all  his  nation,  people, 
or  followers,  professed  themselves  Christians.  But  the  abori 
gine  of  America  either  rejects  peremptorily,  or  acquiesces 
from  politeness.  He  will  hear  sermon,  kneel  at  mass,  hang  a 
cross  among  his  ornaments,  bat  he  remains  ever  ready  for  the 
chace  of  beast  or  man,  ever  delighting  in  blood  and  torture." 

The  success  of  some  missionaries,  particularly  the  Mora- 
yians,  may  be  objected,  but  their  great  and  exemplary  efforts 
produced  but  transient  and  partial  effect.  Individuals  doubt 
less  became  Christians,  (at  least  I  am  willing  to  believe  so)  but 
never  did  an  Indian  profess  Christianity  because  a  king  or  chief 
called  himself  by  that  name." 

"  Is  it  not  because  they  will  not  submit  to  law,"  inquired 
Spiffard. 

"  They  have  an  inexplicable  moral  law,  to  which  they  sub 
mit  more  willingly  than  civilized  men  submit  to  any  legal  re 
straint,  however  trifling,  which  interferes  with  their  passions 
or  interests.  If  an  Indian  has,  in  the  opinion  of  his  tribe,  in- 
cwrred  the  penalty  of  death,  and  is  by  the  council  adjudged  to 
die,  although  he  may  be  far  from  home,  and  beyond  all  control 
by  coercion,  if  notified  of  the  doom  pronounced,  he  returns  and 


•Midnight  and  an  apparition.  193 

offers  his  life  to  expiate  his  fault.  If  he  is  in  debt  to  any  one, 
he  asks  time,  and  life,  for  a  hunt ;  brings  home  the  product, 
settles  his  pecuniary  account,  and  then  meets  the  final  settle 
ment  of  the  death-blow,  without  any  apparent  reluctance." 

As  Cooke  moved  from  the  group  we  have  been  attending 
to,  he  repeated,  "  there  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth, 
Horatio,  than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy." 

"  Hypocrisy  is  carried  farther  with  these  savages  than  with 
any  other  people  in  the  globe,"  was  the  general's  remark. 

"  I  love  them  for  their  democratic  independence,"  said 
Tompkins. 

"  Democracy !"  said  Williams  with  a  sneer.  "  They  cer 
tainly  are  good  democrats  in  filth,  drunkeness,  deceit  and 
violence." 

"  I  am  sorry,  General  Williams,  that  your  long  residence  in 
Europe  has  prejudiced  you  against  the  institutions  of  your 
country.  Democracy,  government  by  the  representatives  of  the 
people,  natives  of  the  soil,  is  the  palladium  of  America.  Yoa 
resided  in  Paris  during  the  reign  of  terror,  and,  excuse  me, 
your  prejudices  may  be  derived  from  what  you  saw  of  mobs." 

"  No,  sir,  I  was  then  a  pure  democrat,  but  I  have  since  had 
experience  of  the  vast  superiority  of  European  society,  and  my 
judgment  of  the  government  necessary  to  produce  this  superio 
rity,  is  founded  upon  long  observation.  Every  thing  in  thi* 
country  appears  little  and  mean,  with  great  ostentation  and  un 
bounded  pretension." 

"  Humph!  pretension,"  said  Littlcjohn. 

"  Your  countrymen,"  said  Tompkins  smiling,  "  are  muck 
obliged  to  you." 

"  Nay — you  must  not  misunderstand  me.  I  love  my  coun 
try  sincerely.  But  you  will  allow  that  the  vulgar  herd  think  of 
nothing  but  levelling.  I  remember  in  this  city  of  New- York, 
and  its  environs,  beautiful  and  commanding  hills,  from  whose 
summits  we  might  contemplate  the  neighbouring  islands,  with 
the  plains  and  mountains  of  New-Jersey,  the  majestic  rivero 
and  bay,  and  even  look  to  the  Atlantic  ocean.  Then,  when 
entering  the  superb  harbour  from  the  sea,  the  city  appeared  to 
rise  from  the  waters,  hill  above  hill ;  now,  a  foreigner  in  ap 
proaching,  cries  how  flat  the  land  is  upon  which  that  town  is 
built.  He  sees  nothing  but  marks  of  mediocrity  and  token* 
of  trade." 

"  And  you  may  remember,  as  I  do,  between  these  toweling 
hills,  enveloped  in  mists,  like  many  a  haughty  European  head, 
deep  ponds  of  stagnant  water,  the  receptacles  of  filth  and 


194  Midnight  and  an  apparition. 

sources  of  pestilence ;  low  and  wide  spread  marshes,  where 
the  bittern  fished  for  the  frog,  and  the  snipe  hid  his  long  bill 
in  the  mud.  Where  are  they  now  1  It  is  true  we  have  a  level ; 
but  it  is  a  wholesome  level.  The  materials  of  superfluous 
heights  have  been  made  useful.  The  lowly  morass  has  been 
lifted  to  the  level  of  the  adjacent  plain,  and  is  covered  with 
the  neat  abodes  of  thousands — the  fountains  of  disease  are 
converted  into  the  habitations  of  health.  Thus  it  is  that  de 
mocracy  would  and  will,  by  degrees,  leave  no  head  so  high  as 
to  be  lifted  to  the  clouds  and  see  mankind  through  a  mist,  and 
will  raise  from  the  pestilential  miasmata  of  vice  and  ignorance 
those  who  had  been  doomed  by  the  aristocracy  of  former  days 
to  the  slough  of  despond  or  the  stagnant  pool  of  corruption." 

"  All  a  dream,  sir,  a  dream  !" 

"  A  glorious  reality !  Our  institutions  are  raising  millions 
to  the  level,  and  above  the  level  of  European  society.  Our 
schools  daily  increase.  Millions  are  imbued  with  the  love  of 
their  country  ;  become  familiar  with  her  institutions  ;  obedient 
to  her  laws  ;  and  rich  in  her  literature,  and  that  of  their  father- 
Ifcurf." 

"  Bravo,  governor!  Democracy  has  a  worthy  champion  in 
the  West-Chester  farmer's  son." 

11  Give  me  your  hand,  my  old  friend,  and  the  friend  of  my 
father.  You  are  not  afraid  of  that  system  which  would  lift 
the  poor  and  the  ignorant  to  the  level  of  good  citizenship,  and 
reduce  the  usurper  of  power  to  a  state  wherein  he  may  be  use 
ful  instead  of  prejudicial." 

"  All  this  is  very  pretty,  gentlemen,  and  very  specious. 
But  you  are  teaching  the  ignorant  and  vulgar,  who  must  ever 
be  the  mass  of  society,  that  they  ought  to  be  the  rulers  of  the 
well  bora  and  well  educated.  Mere  number,  that  is,  brute, 
force,  will  govern.  The  consequence  is,  that  if  I,  or  any 
other  gentleman,  come  in  contact  with  one  of  the  very  lowest 
of  the  people,  provided  the  individual  does  not  wish  any  fa 
vour,  or  has  no  design  upon  my  purse,  his  language  or  beha 
viour  will  be  insolent  or  brutal.  Go  into  a  mechanic's  work 
shop  and  ask  an  apprentice  for  his  master :  the  answer  is,  I 
have  no  master — that  is,  you  get  no  answer.  One  of  the 
journeymen,  if  an  European,  may,  perhaps,  say,  '  the  boss  is 
not  here.'  The  meaner  officials  of  the  country,  from  the  same 
cause,  assume  a  tone  of  familiarity  that  calls  for  correction,  but 
which  their  superiors  in  office  dare  not  attempt.  I  have  seen 
a  constable  in  this  city  put  his  thumb  and  finger  into  the 
mayor's  snuff-box,  when  offered  to  a  distinguished  guest  of 


Midnight  and  an  apparition.  1 95 

the  corporation,  and  take  his  pinch  with  the  sangfroid  of  perfect 
equality." 

"  I  am  an  old  man,  Mr.  Williams — I  beg  pardon — general 
I  should  have  said,"  and  Littlejohn  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  per 
son  he  addressed  with  an  expression  that  might  have  made 
the  blood  mount  to  the  forehead  of  any  other  man.  "  I  have 
Jived  many  years,  and  never  found  that  my  countrymen  were 
deficient  in  civility,  unless  provoked  by  the  assumption  of  su 
periority." 

"  I  think  the  action  I  have  mentioned  was  neither  civil  nor 
proper." 

*'  Where,"  asked  Governor  Tompkins,  "  where  was  the  of 
fence  if  a  constable  put  his  finger  and  thumb  into  a  mayor's 
snuff-box'?  They  are  both  servants  of  the  same  sovereign — the, 
sovereign  people  ;  and  both  part  and  parcel  of  sovereignty. 
I  am  an  officer  of  higher  grade  than  the  mayor,  and  1  have 
taken  my  pinch  from  the  box  of  Jacob  Hays,  and  Jacob  has 
had  thumb  and  finger  in  mine  many  a  time." 

"  Ah,  there  it  is — you  all  look  forward  to  the  time  of 
election." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha!  May  be  so  !  But  my  snuff  received  no  injury 
except  from  diminution  ;  for  Jacob  has  a  broad  thumb  and 
finger,  and  makes  a  grasping  pinch,  as  many  a  greater  sufferer 
than  my  snuff-box  can  testify." 

44  Say  what  you  will,  governor,  I  wish  to  find  respect  paid  to 
my — my — "  he  was  going  to  say  rank,  but  his  eye  met  Little- 
John's,  and  he  changed  his  word  to  "appearance." 

"  It  is  a  trite  saying,  that  appearances  are  deceitful,"  ob 
served  the  last  mentioned  interlocutor. 

"  If  I  go  into  an  inn,"  said  Williams,  "  I  may  stand  in  the 
common  bar-room  for  minutes  before  I  can  be  told  whether  I 
may  have  shelter  or  refreshment.  Whereas,  in  England,  the 
moment  I  appear,  I  am  saluted  with  proper  respect,  and  usher 
ed  into  an  apartment  fit  to  receive  a  gentleman." 

"  By  an  obsequious  cringing  menial,  who,  not  being  paid  by 
the  keeper  of  the  inn,  anticipates,  in  you,  the  bearer  of  his 
wages,"  said  Littlejohn. 

"  Jemmy  Bryden,  of  the  Tontine,  tells  a  story  of  himself  when 
he  kept  the  Fountain  inn  at  Baltimore,  perhaps  apropos  to  ap- 
pearancss"  said  Tomkins.  "  Notice  had  been  given  to  the 
landlord  that  President  Jefferson  would,  on  a  certain  day,  ho 
nour  the  Fountain  inn  with  his  presence,  and  pass  the  night. 
Greatly  pleased  was  Jemmy  Bryden.  He  boo'd  in  anticipation, 
and  much  he  talked  of  the  expected  honour.  Every  preparation 


196  Midnight  and  an  apparition. 

was  made,  and  the  landlord  stood  ready  on  the  appointed  day  to 
receive  the  president  of  the  United  States  with  every  attention 
due  to  his  rank.  At  this  crisis  a  stage-coach  drove  up  to  the  door, 
and  a  tall  traveller  stept  out,  with  saddle-bags  on  arm,  and 
was  stalking  through  the  hall  to  the  interior  of  the  Fountain 
inn.  4  Ye  canno  go  in  there,'  said  Jemmy,  *  sit  ye  doon,  mon, 
in  the  bar-room.'  The  tall  man  did  as  he  was  desired — threw 
his  saddle-bags  on  one  chair  and  himself  on  another,  with  per 
fect  nonchalance ;  took  out  his  snuff-box,  and  after  helping 
himself,  offered  it,  open,  to  Jemmy,  who  was  in  the  act  of 
popping  in  thumb  and  finger,  when  a  well  dressed  gentleman 
approached,  and  asked,  of  the  tall  man,  (with  the  saddle-bags) 
*  when  will  your  excellency  have  a  carriage  ordered?  at  the 
same  time  demanding  of  the  astonished  landlord  '  why  he  had 
not  shown  the  president  to  the  apartments  ordered  for  him  V  " 

Spiffard  seized  the  opportunity  offered  by  Mrs.  Cadwaliader'* 
approach  to  propose  the  amende  honourable,  by  taking  a  place  at 
the  harpsichord;  and,  with  her,  left  the  group  of  gentlemen  who 
had  been  attracted  to  listen  to  the  amiable  governor. 

Again  Spiffard  approached  the  harpsichord,  which,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  opposite  the  door  of  the  outward  apartment : 
again  he  was  seated  opposite  the  fatal  mirror.  Again  the  ladies 
surrounded  him  at  the  call  of  Cadwaliader.  And  this  time  he 
was  permitted  to  show  his  skill  both  as  a  vocal  and  instru 
mental  musician.  He  sung  a  plaintive  ballad — it  was  thought 
he  had  composed  it  himself — and  his  auditors  were  melted  to 
tears.  He  changed  suddenly  to  a  strain  of  mock  bravura, 
and  gave  a  comic  song  with  characteristic  expression.  The 
effect  his  efforts  had  produced — the  attentions  of  the  elegant 
Mrs.  Cadwaliader — the  inspiring  looks,  and  half  suppressed 
sounds  of  delight,  escaping  from  the  lovely  girls  around  him — 
nil  tended  to  encourage  the  young  comedian,  and  his  animal 
spirits  were  exalted  to  their  highest  pitch,  when  other  sounds, 
most  discordant  and  shrill  were  heard,  and  the  company  turned 
to  the  door  from  whence  they  proceeded. 

The  first  words  were  indistinct,  although  screamed  by  a 
voice  scarcely  human.  Then  was  heard,  "  stand  out  of  the 
way,  fellow  !  I  will  go  in  !" 

The  hand  of  the  musician  was  arrested — his  voice  faltered — 
he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  mirror,  and  again  saw  the  dreaded  vi 
sion  which  had  before  deprived  him  of  self-government  and 
stopped  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

Mrs.  Williams  burst  into  the  apartment  a  perfect  image  of 
raging  insanity,  The  elegant  dress  with  which  she  had  pre- 


Midnight,  and  an  apparition.  197 

viously  appeared,  when  she  entered  hanging  upon  the  general's 
arm,  and  was  still,  in  part  upon  her,  but  in  utter  disorder  ; 
appearing  as  if  the  act  of  disrobing  had  commenced  before  the 
impulse  of  madness  had  seized  and  hurried  her  from  her  cham 
ber  to  this  second  humiliating  exhibition.  No  cloak,  shawl, 
or  hat,  served  to  hide  the  ravages  made  in  her  habiliments,  or 
veil  her  distorted  maniacal  countenance.  Her  first  appearance 
had  been,  in  part,  maudlin ;  the  second  was  that  of  furious 
passion  and  raving  insanity  commingled.  Every  feature  was 
distorted,  and  although  inexpressibly  wild,  yet  the  open  mouth 
and  muscles  reluctantly  obeying  the  confused  intellect,  dimmed 
that  brightness  which  flashes  from  uncontrolled  passion,  when 
its  madness  is  not  under  the  influence  of  poison. 

Her  dark  hair  hung  in  disorder,  made  more  conspicuous  by 
the  previous  care  which  had  been  taken  in  its  arrangement, 
and  the  remains  of  ornaments  which  had  been  lavished  upon 
the  now  straggling  tresses.  In  this  plight  she  had  walked,  or 
glided,  a  hideous  spectre,  through  the  streets,  from  the  splendid 
mansion  of  the  general  to  that  of  Doctor  Cadwallader. 

"Williams!  Williams!"  she  shouted,  as  she  entered,  in  a 
tone  high,  hoarse,  discordant.  "Williams!  I  will  bear  it  no 
longer!  Why  am  I  to  be  left  alone?  Why  am  I  to  be  aban 
doned?  I  am  betrayed!  deceived!  I  will  expose  the  hypo 
crite.  I  will  let  the  world  know — " 

While  uttering  these  ravings,  which  seemed  to  threaten  some 
disclosure,  as  a  punishment  to  be  inflicted  upon  the  courteous 
general,  she  had  advanced,  and  the  receding  company  gave 
her  ample  space  to  exhibit  the  wildest  contortions  of  body  and 
limbs. 

The  cry  of  "  SpifTard— Mr.  Spiffard?"  was  heard,  and  he 
was  seen  by  those  near  the  harpsichord,  pale,  and  sinking  from 
the  music-stool.  Again  he  might  have  fallen  to  the  floor,  but 
for  the  aid  of  Doctor  Cadwallader,  and  an  exertion  of  mind  made 
by  himself,  when  he  found  that  he  was  a  second  time  causing 
a  confusion,  which  to  the  company  must  appear  inexplicable  or 
ridiculous. 

The  unhappy  woman  ceased  her  call  upon  her  husband,  as 
soon  as  the  name  of  Spiffard  struck  her  ear.  She  stood  still  a 
moment.  "  Who  says  Spiffard  ?  Where  is  he  ?  Where's  the 
Yankee  farmer  1  Where's  my  sister  ?  Let  me  see  Spiffard  ! 
Let  me  see  my  sister!  My  father!  My  mother!  O,  my 
mother !" 

Williams,  who  had  been  seated  on  an  ottoman,  making  him 
self  agreeable  to  a  lady,  at  the  time  his  wife  entered,  was,  for 

VOL.  i.  12 


198  Midnight,  and  an  apparition. 

once,  taken  by  surprise.  He  at  first  strove  to  appear  uncon 
cerned  ;  but  when  certain  words  reached  his  ear,  he  started 
from  his  seat,  and  hurrying  through  the  retreating  crowd  that 
had  made  a  circle  round  his  wife,  arrived  in  time  to  prevent  her 
falling  on  the  floor,  as  she  called  upon  her  father  and  mother, 
in  a  tone  that  indicated  exhaustion  and  returning  reason,  ac 
companied  by  deep,  heart-breaking  sorrow. 

The  physicians  hastened  to  her  assistance,  and  the  unhappy 
woman  was  conveyed  home  ;  this  time,  accompanied  by  the 
general,  who  had  murmured  something,  in  broken  sentences,  of 
"  delicate  health — unhappy  disease — nervous  affection,"  to 
those  who  assisted  and  rode  with  him  to  his  door,  in  a  coach 
offered  by  one  of  the  company. 

Spiffard  was  surrounded  by  friends,  among  whom  was  Little- 
john,  all  interested  in  his  apparent  suffering,  and  all  very  much 
at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  extraordinary  incidents  of  the  even 
ing.  He  soon  took  leave  of  his  kind  hostess,  and  retired. 
After  much  whispering,  tale-telling,  and  many  grave  looks,  and 
foreboding  shakes  of  the  head,  the  various  groups  dispersed, 
and  left  the  doctor  and  his  lady  to  form  plans  for  their  future 
conduct  towards  those  of  their  guests  who  had  been  most  con 
spicuous  in  the  scenes  of  pain  and  pleasure,  on  which  we  now 
drop  the  curtain. 

Before  we  proceed  with  our  hero's  story,  which  is  becoming 
more  interesting  as  it  approaches  the  catastrophe,  it  is  neces 
sary  to  go  back,  and  see  how,  and  by  what  means,  General 
Williams,  the  handsome  American,  and  his  English  wife,  had 
become  connected  with  the  fate  of  the  Yankee  water-drinker. 

We  are  not  practised  in  the  delightful  art  of  story-telling, 
whether  true  or  false,  real  or  imaginary  ;  but  we  find  that  others 
who  have  practised  the  art  with  success,  have  thought  it  not 
inconsistent  with  that  interest  which  they  wish  to  excite  in  their 
readers,  to  skip  backwards  and  forwards  in  their  narrations  ; 
now  dropping  the  chain  of  events  (as  a  housewife  drops  a 
stitch  in  her  knitting  work  ;)  now  taking  it  up  again,  and  filling 
the  void  skilfully,  (like  the  aforesaid  industrious  dame  :)  so  that 
their  work  (like  the  glove  or  stocking,)  may  be  made  to  suit 
those  it  is  intended  for.  This  being  the  established  mode,  wo 
shall  in  all  humility  follow  it. 

The  reader  has  seen  that  our  lover  of  truth  and  water  found 
his  maternal  grandfather,  Mr.  Atherton,  when  he  visited  him  in 
Lincolnshire,  reduced  to  poverty  ;  that  he  had  lost  his  wife  ;  and 
that  he  was  dependent  upon  the  exertions  of  his  only  remaining 
daughter  for  subsistence.  This  daughter,  once  thought  little  of 


Midnight,  and  an  appantion.  199 

in  comparison  with  her  beautiful  sisters,  had  proved  the  only 
solac«  of  his  age.  This  neglected  one  was  not  adorned  by 
polished  skin,  or  Grecian  feature,  but  she  possessed  the  lasting 
beauties  of  the  mind.  Cheerful,  pious,  dutiful,  and  industrious; 
she  was  the  prop  of  the  paternal  tree,  that  had  not  afforded 
her  a  due  portion  of  its  protecting  influence,  when  its  stem  was 
vigorous,  and  its  branches  flourishing. 

The  neglect  which  Sophia  Atheiton  had  experienced  from 
her  father  and  mother,  taught  her  to  rely  upon  another  parent ; 
and  caused  her  to  seek  instruction  from  the  sources  which  that 
parent  had  placed  within  her  reach. 

We  have  seen  that  our  hero  did  his  duty,  in  placing  his 
grandfather  and  aunt  beyond  the  reach  of  want.  We  will  go 
still  further  back,  take  up  another  stitch,  and  bring  up  another 
thread  of  our  knitting  work,  in  another  chapter. 


200 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Things  as  they  were,  thirty  years  ago. 

"A  paramour  is,  God  bless  us,  a  thing  of  naught." — Shakspeare. 

"  O,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive." — Scott. 

"  Smile  in  men's  faces,  smooth,  deceive,  and  cog; 
Duck  with  French  nods,  and  apish  courtesy." 

"  Methought  a  serpent  eat  my  heart  away." 

"  Cupid  is  a  knavish  lad, 
Thus  to  make  poor  females  mad." 

"One  man  holdeth  troth,  a  million  false." 

"  Which  is  the  villain  1  Let  me  see  his  eyes ; 
That  when  I  note  another  man  like  him, 
I  may  avoid  him." 

"O  what  authority,  and  show  of  truth, 
Can  cunning  sin  cover  itself  withal." — Shakspeare. 

"  Meine  Ruh'  1st  hin. 
Meine  Herz  ist  schwer ; 
Ich  finde  sie  nimmer 
Und  nimmerrnehr." — Goethe. 

"  Wrong  has  but  wrong,  and  blame  the  due  of  blame." — Shakspeare. 

I  HAVE  pledged  myself  to  give  some  account  of  the  hand 
some  and  courteous  General  Williams,  and  to  explain  his 
connection  with  the  fate  and  story  of  Zebediah  Spiffard. 

William  Williams,  (who  had  contrived  to  assume,  with  some 
plausibility,  the  title  of  general,  in  consequence  of  a  short  period 
of  enrolment  in  the  French  republican  army,  at  the  commence 
ment  of  their  struggles  for  liberty,)  was  one  of  those  unprin 
cipled  speculators,  who  have,  in  the  minds  of  the  superficial, 
left  a  stain  on  the  American  character  in  Europe.  He  was  a 
Pennsylvanian  by  birth,  and  descended  from  one  of  the  com- 


Tilings  as  they  were  thirty  years  ago.  201 

panions  of  William  Perm  ;  but  had  very  early  in  life,  thrown  off 
both  the  principles  and  garb  of  the  primitively  apostolic  society, 
of  which  his  ancestor  had  been  a  member  and  leader. 

By  the  death  of  his  parents,  he  was  left  in  possession  of 
some  property,  which  he  dissipated  even  before  he  "  was  read 
out  of  meeting."  After  sponging  upon  such  of  his  countrymen 
as  his  exterior  and  professions  could  deceive,  (and  he  had  "  a 
tongue  could  wheedle  with  the  devil,")  he  sought  a  wider  field 
for  the  display  of  his  abilities  in  Europe.  He  did  not  go  empty* 
handed  to  Paris ;  and  arriving  at  a  time  when  his  professions 
of  zeal  in  the  cause  of  liberty,  as  well  as  his  being  an  Ameri 
can,  were  recommendations,  he  entered  the  army  under  the 
auspices  of  the  good  LaFayette ;  but  found  means  to  retire, 
before  seeing  any  active  service,  with  the  rank  of  major,  which 
was  easily  advanced  to  that  of  general,  after  going  to  London. 

The  vicissitudes  occasioned  by  the  many  revolutions  of 
France,  enabled  him  to  gamble,  or  speculate,  to  advantage  in 
Paris :  he,  however,  found  it  convenient  to  cross  the  channel, 
and  he  arrived  at  the  metropolis  of  Great  Britain  with  a  full 
purse,  splendid  appointments,  and  an  honourable  military  title. 
All  this  was  not  sufficient  to  gain  him  an  introduction  to  the 
higher  classes  of  that  great  city.  He  imitated  their  vices  and 
extravagance  ;  but  his  schemes  upon  their  gold  and  bank  notes, 
though  backed  by  skill,  failed,  at  the  outposts  of  nobility,  the 
gaming  tables,  to  which  he  had  gained  admittance.  Many 
other  schemes  failed,  although  some  succeeded,  and  he  was 
nearly  at  the  bottom,  where  ebbing  fortune  threatened  to  leave 
him,  when,  at  a  public  place,  he  met  the  attractive  Sophia 
Atherton. 

The  outward  marks  of  wealth  had  not  been  stripped  from  the 
general,  and  he  succeeded  in  gaining  an  introduction  to,  and  at 
tracting  the  attention  of  this  fallen,  and  now  neglected,  victim  of 
seduction.  Though  much  her  senior,  he  was  younger,  hand 
somer,  and  more  attentive  than  her  noble  seducer  ;  and  found 
no  difficulty  in  commencing  a  suit  which  ended  in  a  very  dif 
ferent  manner  from  his  first  intentions. 

Williams,  who  was  in  all  things  as  great  a  libertine  as  the 
hereditary  lawgiver  of  Great  Britain,  with  whom  Miss  Ather 
ton  lived,  met  her  at  one  of  those  ball-rooms,  where  persons 
who  had  fallen,  like  her,  but  were  yet  of  the  first  class  of  the 
degraded,  (and  who  resorted  to  this  place  by  permission,  and 
under  certain  restrictions,  appearing  in  splendor,  attended  by 
the  carriages  and  servants  of  their  illegitimate  lords,)  were  ac 
customed  to  assemble ;  and  where  a  show  of  decorum  was  pre- 
12* 


202  Things  as  they  were  thirty  years  ago. 

served.  He  gained  the  information  he  wished  from  the  proprie 
tors  of  this  dancing  assembly  ;  and  with  the  cunning  of  the 
unwise,  conceived  a  plan  for  restoring  his  shattered  fortunes, 
arid  escaping  that  royal  seat,  called  the  King's  Bench. 

He  was  informed  that  my  lord  was  about  to  marry,  and 
would  willingly  make  pecuniary  sacrifices  to  get  rid  of  the 
beautiful  frail-one  in  question.  My  lord  was  extremely  rich — 
a  legitimate  heir  to  his  estates  and  titles  was  his  object — and 
the  general's  informant  hinted  that  his  lordship  would  probably 
pay  well  to  be  relieved  from  the  presence  of  the  lady  who  had 
been  exhibited  in  triumph,  but  was  now  tolerated  as  a  burthen, 
which  he  wished  to  remove  without  resorting  to  harsh,  or  what 
might  be  considered,  dishonourable  measures. 

The  unhappy  Sophia,  disappointed  in  her  hopes  of  continued 
attachment  from  the  man  who  had  gained  her  heart,  (we  do  not 
say  her  love  ;  heart  may  mean  wishes,  desires,  hopes,  whether 
of  admiration,  or  riches,  or  splendor;)  disappointed  in  all  her 
yain  expectations,  tormented  by  conscience,  cut  oft' from  such 
society  as  she  could  esteem,  and  made  daily  more  sensible  of 
her  deplorable  fall,  was  pleased  by  the  particular  attentions  of 
the  handsome  general ;  who  appeared  as  a  man  of  fashion,  dis 
tinction,  and  wealth.  They  met  frequently  at  the  before-men 
tioned  dancing  assembly,  and  after,  by  appointment,  at  other 
places ;  she  guardedly  preserving  with  fidelity,  that  treaty  with 
my  lord,  by  the  terms  of  which  she  enjoyed  the  liberty  she  ex 
ercised;  and  always  accompanied  by  his  lordship's  servants,  in 
attendance,  or  by  some  person  appointed  by  him.  Of  course, 
he  was  apprised  of  Williams's  attentions  to  his  protegee,  and  she 
knew  that  he  had  such  information.  After  a  time,  my  lord  told 
her  that  if  the  gentleman  would  marry  her,  he  would  yield  his 
consent,  however  unwillingly,  and  would  settle  a  handsome 
annuity  upon  her  for  life. 

Williams  found  the  charms  of  the  beautiful  Sophia,  (who 
communicated  the  munificent  intentions  of  my  lord,)  increase 
as  his  funds  and  credit  diminished — and  became  more  pressing, 
in  proportion  to  the  pressing  calls  of  his  creditors.  The  dread 
of  that  resting  place,  before  named — a  place  not  unknown  to 
several  of  our  republicans  who  have  made  their  visits  too  long 
to  the  land  of  their  fathers — increased.  This  uneasy  bench 
began  to  appear  in  his  dreams  ;  the  fear  of  it  made  him  more 
fervent  in  protestations,  and  more  assiduous  in  attentions. 

The  lady,  on  her  part,  became,  in  some  measure,  attached  to 
her  professed  admirer.  Her  hopes  rested  on  him.  To  become 
a  wife,  was,  of  itself,  a  circumstance  ardently  to  be  desired. 


Things  as  they  were  thirty  years  ago.  203 

She  hoped  that  she  might  again  be  received  as  a  child  at  the 
paternal  hearth.  She  saw,  or  imagined,  a  way  opened  by  which 
she  might  escape  the  tortures  of  an  upbraiding  conscience  ;  for 
conscience,  though  lulled  by  the  opiates  of  dissipation,  would 
awake,  and  the  voice  was  louder  at  every  awakening.  She 
hoped  yet  for  the  blessing  of  her  father,  and  to  have  the  stains 
of  sin  washed  from  her  by  the  tears  of  repentance  and  forgive 
ness,  shed  and  mingled  on  the  bosom  of  her  mother  ;  for  yet 
she  knew  not  that  she  was  the  murderer  of  that  too  fond  and 
indulgent  parent.  She  encouraged  the  adventurer's  addresses, 
in  the  delusive  hope  of  retrieving  character,  and  finding  happi 
ness  ;  for  "  hope  is  swift,  and  flies  with  swallows'  wings."  Wil 
liams  pursued  her  to  avoid  a  prison,  satisfy  his  creditors,  and 
secure  the  means  of  living,  if  not  in  splendour,  at  least  in  sen 
sual  indulgence.  Her  beauty,  for  yet  her  brilliant  complexion, 
(aided  by  the  arts  of  the  milliner,  mantua-rffaker,  and  other 
coadjutors  of  the  toilet,)  lent  to  Sophia  Atherton  no  small  por 
tion  of  attraction  for  such  a  man  as  William  Williams. 

The  other  party  to  this  bargain,  the  noble  peer,  who  could 
trace  his  blood  to  one  of  the  robbers  attending  upon  the  Nor 
man  conqueror ;  (and  who  had,  as  we  have  seen,  watched  the 
progress  of  the  intrigue,)  chose  his  opportunity  to  bring  it  to  a 
close.  One  morning,  (that  is,  a  little  before  sun-set  in  June,) 
when  he,  by  appointment,  met  Sophia,  he,  assuming  an  air  of 
badinage,  and  exercising  a  degree  of  frankness,  not  often  put 
in  requisition,  told  his  victim  that  he  thought  "  the  Yankee  gen 
tleman"  would  "  serve  her  turn,"  and  advised  her  to  secure 
him.  His  frankness,  however,  did  not  extend  so  far  as  to  make 
known  to  her  that  the  general  was  no  general ;  and  tint  the 
splendid  equipage,  furniture,  and  other  indications  of  wealth, 
were  unpaid  for. 

"  I  will  do  my  endeavour  to  arrange  matters  in  such  a  man 
ner  that  you  shall  have  no  just  cause  to  complain  of  my  want 
of  liberality.  The  general  will  make  you  what  is  called  *  an 
honest  woman ;'  and  if  he  takes  you  to  Yankee-land,  you  will 
shine  as  a  brilliant  star  among  the  pine-knots  of  New-England, 
or  a  sun,  illuminating  with  your  splendour,  the  fashion-aping 
coteries  of  Boston  or  Washington." 

We  will  not  record  the  answer  of  the  humbled  and  penitent 
Sophia.  The  interview  ended  in  an  understanding  that  Wil 
liams  should  be  invited  by  her  to  see  my  lord's  collection  of  pic 
tures,  statues,  medals,  and  other  evidences  of  his  virtu ;  and 
a  concerted-accidental  meeting  should  take  place  between  the 
noble  peer  and  the  ignoble  general. 


204  Things  as  they  were  thirty  years  ago. 

This  happened  as  was  arranged.  Let  it  be  observed  that 
the  female  partner  in  the  transaction  was  the  only  one  who  did 
not  attempt  to  deceive.  The  general  imposed  upon  her,  and 
wished  to  impose  himself  upon  the  noble,  as  a  man  of  honour 
and  wealth.  The  noble  had  obtained  a  knowledge  of  the  worth- 
lessness  of  the  impostor  upon  whom  he  intended  to  place  the 
ostensible  responsibility  for  the  future  welfare  of  the  woman  he 
had  ruined  ;  but  was  satisfied  that  he  acted  as  a  man  of  hon 
our,  in  providing  her  with  a  husband,  and  securing  her  from  a 
want  of  the  luxuries  she  had  been  accustomedto.  Sophia  impart 
ed  to  the  man  on  whom  her  hopes  now  rested,  all  her  former 
aberrations  and  future  aspirations.  She  was  again  deceived  ! 

The  two  gentlemen — alas  !  that  the  term  should  be  so  pros 
tituted — the  nobleman  and  general — (these  words  must  pass 
for  designations  of  the  individuals  who  met  to  complete  the 
bargain  and  sale,)  concurred  in  deceiving  the  object  of  the 
traffic.  The  general,  accompanied  by  his  intended  wife,  ad 
mired  the  \vorks  of  art  he  ostensibly  came  to  see.  My  lord 
dropped  in  by  chance,  was  introduced  ;  and  the  negotiators,  at 
a  signal  given  by  the  master  of  the  mansion,  were  left  tete-a- 
tete*  by  the  withdrawing  of  the  lady — the  property  to  be  bought 
and  sold. 

My  lord  told  Williams  that  he  was  aware  of  his  pursuit  of 
Miss  Atherton,  and  added  : 

"  She  is  a  lovely  woman,  sir,  a  treasure,  of  which,  I  am  con 
scious  that  I  am  unworthy.  My  age  is  unsuited  to  her  youth 
and  beauty.  She  has  confessed  that  you  have  engaged  her 
affections.  Family  reasons  render  it  proper  that  I  should 
marry,  and  my  union  with  a  lady  of  rank  is  arranged — the  time 
fixed.  Now,  sir,  you  are  a  man  of  honour — a  general  in  the 
American  service — " 

"  No,  my  lord — I  have  been  in  the  French  army." 

*'  True,  I  recollect — for  to  be  frank,  I  have  not  been  so  in 
attentive  to  Miss  Atherton's  future  prospects,  as  not  to  make 
certain  inquiries.  You  live  in  style,  keep  your  carriage,  and 
all  that — but  to  be  plain,  I  understand  that  your  circumstances 
are  not  such  as  appearances  indicate,  or,  as  Miss  Atherton 
thinks  them." 

The  peer  paused.  The  general  determined  to  throw  off  a 
mask  which  he  found  was  no  longer  a  disguise.  He  confessed, 
that  he  was  a  bankrupt;  but  ho  was  too  much  under  the  influ 
ence  of  habit  not.  to  begin  some  smooth  sentences  respecting 
remittances  and  expectations,  which  the  hereditary  lawmaker 
interrupted  by  proceeding  thus. 

"  Sir,  I  believe  we  understand  each  other,  and  may  as  well 


Things  as  they  ivere  thirty  years  ago.  205 

come  to  the  point.  We  are  both  men  of  the  world,  but  I  am 
the  greater  favourite  of  fortune,  and  you  the  happier  as  un 
homme  a  bonnes  fortunes.  In  plain  English,  I  am  rich  and  you 
are  poor." 

The  countenance  of  the  peer  was  as  he  spoke  the  last  lines, 
very  like  that  which  Moritz  Retzch  has  given  to  Mephistophiles 
in  his  sketches  from  Faust.  The  general  kept  his  own  coun 
tenance — bowed  and  smiled.  The  rich  man  proceeded. 

"  I  will  come  down  handsomely  if  you  will  publicly  marry 
Miss  Athertori." 

"  Publicly  (" 

"  Publicly.  That  is,  in  the  presence  of  undeniable  witnes 
ses. — You  hesitate.  Your  friends,  you  know,  need  not  be 
made  acquainted  with  any  particulars  of  the  lady's  former  his 
tory.  Your  honourable  character  must  be  her  passport  in  either 
hemisphere."  Mephistophiles  again. 

"  Certainly,  Sir." 

"  I  will  settle  upon  her  for  her  life,  one  thousand  pounds — of 
course  sterling — per  annum." 

"  For  her  life." 

"  Her  life.  She  is  still  young — true,  the  young  die — well, 
then,  if  you  survive,  five  hundred  a  year  for  your  life — you 
shall  be  a  general  on  half  pay."  Mephistophiles  again. 

"  But  my  present  debts  ?" 

*'  What !  must  I  wipe  off  all  old  scores  ? — well,  well,  so  be 
it.  We  will  make  a  clear  field." 

Such  was  the  bargain  and  sale.  It  is  sufficient  for  us  to 
know  that  it  was  fulfilled  honourably.  The  general  introdu 
ced  his  beautiful  wife  to  his  friends,  who,  being  principally 
Pennsylvanians  of  a  respectable  class,  were  less  liable  to  know 
the  history  of  Miss  Atherton,  whose  name  alone,  was  made 
known  to  them  by  the  husband,  with  the  addition,  that  her  fami 
ly  resided  in  Lincolnshire  ;  and  the  bride  and  bridegroom  left 
London  for  the  country  seat.  That  she  was  an  heiress  was 
very  clear,  to  the  general's  creditors. 

Sophia  had  stipulated  that  she  should  visit  her  parents  and 
sister.  Her  mother  was  dead.  Her  father  refused  to  see  her, 
or  forgive  her.  The  knowledge  that  her  mother  died  in  conseT 
quence  of  her  flight  and  infamy,  was  a  sore  blow,  awakening 
anew  her  lulled  conscience.  Her  hopes  of  reconciliation  were 
blasted.  Her  sister  Eliza  saw  her  privately  and  wept  over  her. 
She  remembered  what  had  passed  in  the  days  of  early  youth, 
*'  school-days  friendship — childhood  innocence,"  for  though  un 
like  and  differently  treated  by  their  parents,  there  still  were  "  ma 
ny  hours  that  they  had  spent  together,"  when  they  "  had  chid  the 


206  Things  as  they  were  thirty  years  ago. 

hasty-footed  time  for  parting  them."  Besides,  religion  had 
taught  Eliza  forgiveness  ;  she  practised  its  precepts.  To  "  do 
as  she  would  be  done  by,"  and  "to  render  good  for  evil,"  were 
laws  her  pure  heart  never  rebelled  against.  She  endeavoured 
to  be  a  mediator  between  the  father  and  repentant  daughter ; 
but  even  her  influence — the  influence  of  wisdom,  puritv  arid 
love,  could  not  bend  the  obstinacy  of  a  wreak-minded  man, 
•whose  hopes  had  been  blasted  where  he  placed  his  fondest 
expectations. 

The  wretched  Sophia  was  doomed  to  further  disappointments 
on  her  return  to  London:  trifling  in  comparison  with  those  she 
had  last  experienced,  but  they  were  additions  ;  and  when  the 
cup  is  full,  a  drop  causes  overflowing.  Riches  command  out 
ward  tokens  of  respect ;  but  the  heart  requires  more  ;  and 
neither  Williams  nor  his  wife  found  it.  The  reception  Mrs. 
Williams  met  w7ith  from  those  to  whom  her  husband  introdu 
ced  her  was  cool.  There  was  some  mystery  identified  with 
her  and  her  marriage,  and  mystery  begets  suspicion. 

Shortly  some  good  natured  friend,  with  the  best  intentions  in 
the  world,  informed  her  that  it  was  said,  and  positively  assert 
ed,  notwithstanding  that  she  had  contradicted  it,  that,  Mrs. 
Williams  had  been  divorced  from  a  former  husband  in  conse 
quence  of  certain  indiscretions  :  "  only  think  how  ridiculous, 
iny  dear,"  and  another  had  said  that  a  certain  peer  had  been 
noticed  (while  looking  at  her  through  his  glass,  at  the  opera- 
house,)  giving  intimations  of  former  intimacy  ;  and  then  whis 
pering  to  some  of  his  companions  :  and  it  was  reported  that 
the  peer — a  newly  married,  though  an  old  man,  had  been  a  par 
ticular  friend  of  Mrs.  Williams.  Other  reports  said  that  she  had 
been  separated  from  her  husband  and  a  flock  of  fine  children, 
by  a  private  compromise  between  general  Williams  and  the 
injured  party.  In  short  the  unhappy  woman  found  that  the 
past  was  incessantly  intruding  upon  the  present,  not  only  by 
the  busy  suggestions  of  memory,  but  by  circumstances  which 
to  the  sound  would  have  caused  no  pain.  She  saw  that  there 
was  no  rest  for  her  in  her  native  land. 

To  add  to  her  misfortunes,  she  had,  when  first  conscious  of 
the  falling  off,  and  increasing  neglect  of  her  seducer,  sought  in 
the  wretched  resource  of  the  wretched,  a  temporary  relief  from 
mortification  and  grief;  and  now,  under  the  affliction  caused  by 
the  failure  of  her  hopes,  she  again  had  recourse  to  the  same 
aggravating  palliative. 

Williams  found  his  situation  disagreeable,  and  proposed  a 
visit  to  his  native  country.  Sophia,  although  she  had  no  favour- 
kig  recollections  of  her  former  residence  in  America,  and 


Things  as  they  were  thirty  years  ago.  2C7 

might  have  objected  to  Boston,  gladly  agreed  to  the  proposal 
of  visiting  the  relations  of  her  husband  in  Philadelphia.  To 
go  where  she  was  unknown, seemed  desirable;  but  to  seek  a 
refuge  in  such  obscurity  was  like  the  hopeles  attempt  to  fly 
from  the  observation  of  a  Roman  tyrant  when  Rome  was  the 
world,  and  the  only  refuge  of  the  guilty  was  death.  A  change 
of  place  was,  however,  a  revival  of  hope. 

The  soi-disant  general  had  no  brothers;  and  but  one  sister 
living.  She  had  never  deviated  from  the  sect  of  which  her 
ancestors  had  been  shining  lights,  and  had  married,  in  meeting, 
(with  all  the  decent  and  rational  forms  of  quakerism,)  a  man 
like  herself.  She  was  now  a  widow,  residing  in  Philadelphia, 
in  circumstances  which  assure  competence  to  those  whose 
desires  are  moderate,  and  surrounded  in  her  simple  dwelling  by 
four  daughters  as  prudent,  neat,  and  unpretending  as  she  had 
been  when  at  the  SLime  joyful  epocha  of  life,  the  age  of  expec 
tation.  To  this  sister  the  general  announced  his  intentions  of 
visiting  his  home,  and  being  her  guest  until  he  should  establish 
himself  and  her  new  sister,  in  a  suitable  dwelling,  as  her  neigh 
bour. 

The  travellers  were  anxiously  expected  by  the  quaker  widow 
and  her  daughters.  Their  plain  domicil  was  prepared  to  receive 
them,  and  their  hearts  were  as  open  as  their  doors.  They 
received  notice  of  the  arrival  of  the  long  expected  guests,  who 
had  left  the  ship  and  come  up  to  the  city  in  a  steamboat.  A 
trusty  porter  was  in  waiting  to  conduct  them  to  the  retired 
dwelling  of  Mrs.  Smith,  which,  surrounded  by  other  quaker 
families,  stood  in  a  court-like  street,  a  cul  de  sac,  which  was 
not  in  existence  when  her  brother  left  home.  The  travellers 
were  espied  as  they  entered  the  secluded  place.  Williams 
approached  the  door  of  his  only  remaining  relative.  His  sis 
ter  and  her  daughters  stood  at  the  entrance  to  receive  him,  and 
one  they  were  prepared  for  his  sake  to  love.  Mrs.  Williams, 
who  more  than  divided  the  attention  of  the  female  group,  hung 
on  his  arm.  They  were  followed  by  the  black  porter  with  his 
wheelbarrow  of  baggao-e,  two  servants,  a  man  and  woman  ; 
two  dogs,  favourites  of  the  master,  were  close  at  his  heels,  and 
a  third,  the  pet  of  the  mistress  was  borne  in  the  arms  of  the 
female  servant.  The  kind  faces  of  the  quakers  beamed  with 
pleasure  as  they  saw  the  near  approach  of  the  new  sister  and 
aunt.  She  had  already  ascended  the  first  step  of  the  porch, 
already  the  sister  had  advanced  with  outstretched  hand — when 
Fidelle  uttered  a  cry  and  escaped  from  the  arms  of  his  convey- 


208  Things  as  they  were  thirty  years  ago. 

er.  The  lady  shrieked,  "  run  Williams  !  see  what's  the  matter 
with  Fidelle!" 

This  want  of  tact,  not  to  say  feeling,  can  only  be  accounted 
for  by  what  has  already  been  hinted  at.  I  only  state  the  fact. 
As  to  the  expecting  ladies,  I  can  give  no  adequate  net-on  of 
the  change  of  feeling  which  took  place  in  them,  when  they 
saw  the  new-come  relatives  retire  from  them  in  pursuit  of  a 
little  yelping  cur  ;  and  then  saw  the  general,  (having  capiured 
the  puppy)  advancing  again — his  attentions  and  caresses  be 
stowed  upon  the  brute  animal,  while  his  wife  stretched  her 
arms  to  receive  Fidelle,  and  turned  her  back  on  her  husband's 
relations.  When  they  saw  this  specimen  of  their  guests,  the 
reader  may  imagine  the  shock  their  affectionate  hearts  received. 
Their  countenances  I  cannot  describe,  except  that  of  the 
youngest  girl,  who,  seeing  nothing  but  the  ridiculous  in  the 
scene,  stood  behind  her  mother,  and  showed  by  her  laughing 
face  that  she  was  only  restrained  by  the  matron's  presence  from 
giving  audible  indications  of  her  delight. 

Even  the  neighbours  had  been  drawn  to  their  windows — 
for  neighbours  love  to  participate  in  neighbours'  pleasures — 
and  some  of  them  drew  in  their  heads  that  an  indecorous  srnile 
might  not  be  observed,  or  laugh  heard.  And  many  a  heart  and 
door  was  shut  to  the  visiters,  by  this  freak  of  the  dog,  the 
gentleman,  and  the  lady. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Williams,  after  a  time,  commenced  house 
keeping,  in  an  expensive  style,  in  Walnut-street.  They  were 
discontented,  and  passed  a  winter  in  Washington.  It  was 
worse  there.  They  removed  to  Richmond,  and  finally  to  New- 
York.  They  lived  in  splendour — they  gave  dinners  and 
parties,  and  were  in  return  invited  and  feasted.  All  looked 
beautiful,  for  a  time,  without,  but  the  canker-worm  feasted 
within.  In  the  winter  of  1811-12,  the  once  beautiful  Sophia 
was  reduced  to  the  state  in  which  we  have  seen  her  at  Doctor 
Cadwallader's. 


END  OF  THE  FIRST  VOLUME. 


MEMOIRS 


WATER    DRINKER. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

''  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  OF  THE  ARTS  OF  DESIGN  IN 
THE  UNITED  STATES,"  <(A  HISTORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  THEATRE,"  AND 
"A  HISTORY  OF  NEW  YORK  FOR  SCHOOLS." 


TWO  VOLUMES  IN  ONE. 
VOL.  II. 

•Seomfr  32irttton, 


NEW   YORK: 

SAUNDERS  AND  OTLEY,  ANN  STREET. 
1837. 


ENTERED,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1836, 

By  WILLIAM  DUNLAP, 
In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of  New-York. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.  II. 


PAGE. 

CHAP.     1.  Manoeuvering  and  plain  dealing 5 

2.  The  beginning  of  a  hoax 15 

3.  Our  Heroine  in  Theatre  Alley 30 

4.  The  hoax  progresses 43 

5.  More  hoaxing. — Mr.  Smith  and  Captain  Smith       .        .  58 

6.  Winter.— An  English  Heroine 63 

7.  The  hoax  renewed,  and  a  mystery  in  Albany           .        .  74 

8.  Mystery  in  New- York,  and  another  Hero         ...  82 

9.  A  death,  and  a  snow  storm        ......  91 

10.  Effects  of  intemperance. — A  Scene  from  real  life     .        .  97 

11.  A  water-drinker  and  a  wine-bibber  in  a  snow  storm        .  103 

12.  An  unexpected  family  meeting Ill 

13.  Domestic  life  of  the  intemperate 115 

14.  A  morning  after  a  snow  storm 119 

15.  Some  sunshine 129 

16.  The  hoax  goes  on.— Confidence,  and  the  lack  of  it— their 

consequences  in  domestic  life 137 

17.  Hoax  continued. — A  sick-bed  repentance          .        .        .  145 

18.  Hoax  continued,— The  button  duellist       .        .        .        .153 

19.  Another  victim 158 

20.  The  plot  unveiled — almost 165 

21.  Real  repentance. — Love 171 

22.  The  hoax  concluded            177 

23.  A  promising  match ;  and  an  old  acquaintance  very  un 

promising    t84 

24.  The  denouement  of  a  tragedy 193 

25.  A  discovery  :  and  another 199 

26.  The  death  of  G.  F.  Cooke 206 

27.  All  disposed  of '  .        .214 


THIRTY    YEARS    AGO. 


CHAPTER  I. 
ilttn&xvring  and  plain  dealing. 

"  Be  just,  and  fear  not." 

"  Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty." 

"  We  call  a  nettle  but  a  nettle  :  and 
The  faults  of  folly  but  folly." 

''•  A  sick  man's  appetite,  who  desires  most  that 
Which  would  increase  his  evil." 

"  And,  since  you  know  you  cannot  see  yourself 
So  well  as  by  reflection,  I,  your  glass, 
Will  modestly  discover  to  yourself 
That  of  yourself  which  yet  you  know  not  of." 

"  He  would  not  flatter  Neptune  for  his  trident. 
Or  Jove  for  his  power  to  thunder.'1  — 


THE  wretched  Williams,  a  slave  to  sensuality,  and  involved 
in  a  labyrinth  by  his  own  practices,  lived  in  perpetual  fear  of 
losing  the  reward  of  his  meanness  ;  of  being  exposed  to  infamy 
by  the  disclosure  of  that  transaction  which  had  given  him  the 
means  of  indulgence.  He  feared  to  thwart  the  perverted  in 
clinations,  or  the  frenzied  whims,  of  his  partner.  She  had 
been  long  convinced  that  his  professions  of  love  had  been  false, 
and  that  she  had  cause  for  jealousy.  She  knew,  however,  that 
her  hold  upon  him,  that  grasp  which  gave  her  power,  was  the 
secret  :  and  she  had  cunning  enough,  even  in  her  moments  of 
passion  or  of  voluntary  madness,  to  preserve  unbroken  the 
bonds  by  which  she  controlled  him.  She  suspended  over  his 
coward  head  the  lash  he  feared.  Often  she  appeared  to  tri 
umph  in  the  power  she  possessed,  and,  in  part,  revealed  the 
cause. 

After  the  last  exhibition  at  Doctor  Cadwallacler's,  there  ap 
peared  but  little  hope  to  escape  from  exposure.  Still  the  man 

VOL.    II.  1 


6  JVfanceuvring  and  plain  dealing. 

of  art  flattered  himself  that  his  address,  and  the  doctor's  in 
terest,  might  suspend,  if  not  ward  off,  the  blow  that  threatened. 
He  soon  had  his  suspense  removed. 

It  is  not  well  to  repeat  epithets,  or,  in  speaking  of  our  hero, 
I  might  say  the  wretched  Spiffard,  for  he  retired  from  Doctor 
Cadwallader's  in  a  plight  almost  as  lamentable,  (though  from 
very  dissimilar  causes)  as  the  man  who  proved  to  be  the  hus 
band  of  his  aunt ;  but  we  will  simply  say  that  Zebediah  Spif 
fard,  on  going  home,  found  Ernma  Portland  alone  ;  employed, 
as  usual,  with  her  book  and  her  needle.  His  wife  and  her 
mother  were  still  at  the  theatre.  Mrs.  Spifiard  had,  en  this 
evening,  represented  the  heroine  of  the  "  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,"  a  character  in  which  her  tall  and  noble  figure,  power 
fully  expressive  features,  flexible,  sonorous  and  overwhelming- 
organs  of  speech,  and  great  discrimination  in  giving  the  lan 
guage  of  the  poet,  made  her  a  favourite  of  the  public.  Cooper 
was  equally  excellent  in  Petruchio,  and  the  curtailed  play 
being  performed  as  an  afterpiece,  he  had  made  his  appearance 
at  Cadwalladar's  before  attending  to  his  duties  as  an  actor. 

Spiffard  left  Emma  and  proceeded  to  the  play-house  to 
meet  the  ladies  of  whom  he  had  become  the  protector.  We 
have  seen -what  the  feelings  of  the  actor  were  in  respect  to  ac 
cepting  invitations  to  parties  in  which  ladies  participated,  nnd 
to  which  his  wife  was  not  asked.  It  may  be  imagined  that  the 
actress,  such  as  we  have  endeavoured  to  describe  Mrs.  Spif 
fard,  would  feel  as  little  pleased  as  her  husband  at  the  dis 
tinction.  He  had  talked  the  matter  over  with  her  previous  to 
going  to  the  doctor's,  and  she,  although  by  no  means  objecting 
to  his  determination,  had  expressed  no  little  bitterness  on  the 
subject  generally.  In  truth  yhe  felt  mortified  and  degraded  : — 
whether  she  played  the  shrew  better  or  worse  that  evening  we 
do  not  pretend  to  say.  When  Cooper  appeared  in  the  green 
room,  she  asked  if  he  had  seen  her  husband.  He  answered, 
carelessly,  "  O,  yes  !  he  is  the  fiddle  of  the  company.  I  hope, 
like  the  man  in  Joe  Miller,  he  does  not  hang  his  fiddle  up  be 
hind  the  street-door  when  he  comes  home.  He  is  as  gay  as  a 
\ar\\tfaisant  PagreobU,  and  quite  the  ladies'  man." 

The  call-boy  cut  off  further  remark  by  interrupting  the  col 
loquy  ;  as  frequently  happens,  (and  sometimes  very  apropos) 
to  green-room  conversation. 

Spiffard  found  the  ladies  ready  to  depart,  and,  with  hi* 
thoughts  still  occupied  by  the  events  which  had  shocked  and 
overpowered  him,  he  placed  himself  in  melancholy  silence  be- 


ring  and  plain  dealing.  7 

tween  his  towering  spouse  and  her  lofty  mother,  the  three  form 
ing  the  figure  of  an  inverted  cone. 

"  You  have  passed  an  agreeable  evening,  I  hope  V9 

"  All  the  great  folks  of  the  city  were  there,  I  suppose," 
added  the  mother,  before  he  could  reply  to  his  wife's  question. 
After  a  moment's  silence  Mrs.  SpifFard  added,  inquiringly, 
u  a  great  many  ladies  I11 

"  Yes." 

"  All  very  gay  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Very  agreeable  and  amiable  1" 

"  Yes." 

"  Ah,"  thought  the  wife,  "  the  fiddle's  hung  up  before  we 
reach  the  street-door." 

The  lady  had  been  excited  by  the  plaudits  of  the  theatre. 
She  had  been  further  excited  by  what  her  mother  had  urged 
her  to  take  after  the  fatigue  of  the  stage ;  notwithstanding  a 
promise  she  had  made  her  husband,  who,  in  kindness,  though 
with  firmness,  had  remonstrated  against  the  practice.  She 
knew  not  the  cause  of  his  taciturnity,  and  remembered  the  idea 
that  had  been  given  of  his  gaiety  in  the  company  of  others. 
The  darkness  might  have  veiled  the  lowering  of  her  heavy 
brows,  even  had  SpifFard  looked  up  to  them ;  but  the  thunder 
that  broke  from  the  cloud  startled  him  from  the  gloomy  mus 
ings  of  his  afflicted  spirit. 

And  a  shower  of  words  on  "  the  insolence  of  the  rich — the 
injustice  inflicted  upon  genius — the  unhappy  fate  of  actors, 
particularly  females — "  lasted  until  they  had  reached  their 
home  ;  where,  in  the  happiness  of  innocence,  combined  with 
intelligence,  still  sat  Emma  Portland. 

The  quick  perception  of  Spiffard  on  the  subject  nearest  his 
heart,  left  him  as  miserable  for  the  night  (perhaps  more  miser 
able)  as  the  man  I  have  termed  wretched  at  the  commence 
ment  of  this  chapter. 

The  colloquy  of  Doctor  Cadwallader  and  his  wife  was  not 
as  pleasant  as  usual  with  people  so  truly  high-minded  and  in 
tellectual.  The  subject  was  not  agreeable.  It  was  the  unto 
ward  events  of  the  past  evening.  Williams  had  been  received 
by  the  doctor,  who  was  a  Philadelphian,  and  knew  the  excel 
lent  quaker  relatives  of  the  genera!,  with  the  warmth  of  a  fel 
low  townsman.  Cadwallader  had  been  employed  as  the  family 
physician.  He  had  faithfully  forewarned  the  wife,  and  un 
dauntedly  remonstrated  with  the  husband.  He  was  no  flatterer* 

After  a  serious  consultation,  (to  use  a  medical  phrase)  with 


8  Manoeuvring  and  plain  dealing. 

his  best  friend,  the  doctor  waited  upon  Williams,  the  day  after 
the  party,  and,  with  very  little  previous  ceremony,  addressed 
him  in  the  following  manner : 

"  I  have  come  to  perform  a  duty  which  is  extremely  disa 
greeable,  but,  as  it  is  a  duly,  I  shall  not  shrink  from  it." 

"  You  have  always  done  your  duty." 

"  And  will  now.  After  the  scene  of  last  evening,  at  my 
house,  and  before  so  many  witnesses,  I  must  be  explicit  with 
you  in  respect  to  our  future  intercourse." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  friend." 

"  Sir,  I  mean,  that  after  the  exhibition  made  by  your  bring 
ing  Mrs.  Williams  to  my  house,  when  you  knew  'the  impro 
priety  of  so  doing,  I  must  come  to  a  clear  understanding  with 
you  respecting  the  future  intercourse  between  my  family  and 
the  person  in  question." 

41  Mr  dear  sir,  you  astonish  me  !  You  know  her  unfortunate 
nervous  temperament — the  affection " 

*•  Sir,  I  am  a  physician." 

44  Known  to  be  the  first  in  the-  western  world." 

••  I  have  acted  as  physician  to  your  family,  probably  called 
,«  because  we  are  both  Philadelphians,  arid,  as  a  physician,  I 
know  the  cause — that  is,  the  immediate  cause  of  this  deplor 
able  effect.  The  more  remote  is  probably  only  known  to 
yourself." 

"  A  delicate  constitution — morbid  nervous  susceptibility — "' 

"  Sir,  you  seem  to  forget,  that,  as  your  physician,  I  have 
before  told  you  the  nature  of  the  disease.  I  have  never  flat 
tered  you,  and  never  shall." 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  know " 

"  Sir,  sir,  I  know  too  much.  I  have  witnessed  too  much. 
I  have  been  forbearing :  but  I  now  tell  you  plainly,  that,  when 
the  disease  prevail?,  the  patient  must  be  kept  at  lion.e.  The 
alienation  of  mind,  inflicted  by  natural  causes,  can  never  bt; 
mistaken.  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  the  true,  immediate  cause,  is 
known ;  and  a  remote  cause  imagined.  For  my  own  part, 
sir,  I  must  decline  all  further  intercourse  between  the  two 
houses,  except  such  as  may  be  called  for  in  my  profcs?io:ii;l 
capacity." 

**  Sir,  I  do  not  understand — this — " 

"  You  may  as  well  understand,  without  forcing  ILO  to  speak 
plainer." 

"  Such  language,  sir,  calls  for  explanation." 

"  It  had  better  be  avoided ;  but  I  am  ready  to  give  a  plain 
answer  to  any  question  you  may  propound." 


Manoeuvring  and  plain  dealing.  9 

"  My  dear  doctor,  you  must  not  take  offence.  Yon  are  tny 
friend.  My  fellow-townsman.  I  perceive  that — that  the 
meeting  with  a  young  gentleman  at  your  house,  has  made  it 
necessary  that  you  should  be  made  acquainted  with  the  pre- 
vims  history  of  your  patient — it  is  necessary  that  you  should 
know  circumstances  which  the  meddling  world  need  not  be 
made  acquainted  with." 

"  I  bcj*  that  no  secret  may  be  confided  to  me,  sir." 

"  You  arc  my  friend.  You  have  always  been  sincere,  and 
1  value  sincerity  as  the  first  of  virtues.  I  hope  you  will  listen 
to  me."  And  the  accomplished  courtier  related  such  parts  of 
his  wife's  early  history,  as  he  thought  necessary  to  account  for 
the  scene  connected  with  Spifian',  as  Jar  as  he  himself  knew  or 
could  understand  his  behaviour. 

Doctor  Cadwallader  entered  into  sonic  further  explanations 
in  respect  to  the  causes  which  were  suspected  or  imagined, 
for  the  general's  extraordinary  conduct.  He  dwelt  at  some 
length  upon  the  tendency  of  mystery  to  create  suspicion.  But  as 
we  know  that  the  reader  is  sufficiently  acquainted,  by  this  time, 
with  the  "VVilliams's,  we  shall  not  repeat  more  of  the  conversa 
tion.  The  general  winced — but  bowed,  and  praised  his  friend's 
candour.  The  doctor  concluded  by  saying,  "  My  advice  i* 
that,  not  only  of  a  physician,  but  of  a  friend — a  friend  to  my 
i'ellow-creatures.  There  is  a  point  to  which  the  world  may  be 
led  blindfold.  Men  are  not  averse  to  being  hoodwinked  ;  but 
if  they  do  open  their  oyes,  they  are  very  apt  to  believe  their 
testimony.  Good  morning,  sir." 

Thus  ended  the  interview  between  the  general  and  his  towns 
man,  the  doctor ;  who,  having  made  his  bow,  was  attended  to 
the  door  with  congees  and  smiles,  mingled  with  sighs  and  a  gene 
ral  humility  of  demeanor  suited  to  the  occasion.  Left  to  him 
self,  Williams  burst  forth  into  passionate  exclamations  and 
bitter  curses.  The  pent-up  tempest  had  free  vent;  and  he 
traversed  his  splendid  apartment  with  'such  furious  looks  and 
gestures  as  might  be  attributed  to  a  disappointed  demon. 

He  bethought  himself  of  the  necessity  for  seeing  his  wife's 
nephew.  The  necessity  for  gaining  his  good  will,  and  secur 
ing  his  silence.  This  operated  likeloil  upon  the  surface  of  the 
agitated  waters.  He  became  outwardly  calm.  The  storm  of 
passion  appeared  to  subside  ;  and  again  arranging  his  feature?, 
und  even  his  thoughts,  the  accomplished  courtier  and  despica 
ble  hypocrite  sought  at  the  box-office  of  the  theatre  a  direction 
to  the  comedian,  and  presented  himself  at  the  door  of  Mrs. 
Epsom. 


10  Manoeuvring  and  plain  dealing. 

The  ripened  age,  commanding  person,  and  courteous  man 
ners  of  the  soi-disant  general,  insured  him  a  reception  any 
where.  The  only  servant  of  the  house  introduced  him  to  the 
room  in  which  our  hero  sat  in  meditating  mood.  • 

"  I  speak  to  Mr.  Spiffard  ?"  said  Williams,  bowing  with  an 
air  and  look  something  between  the  friendly  greeting  of  an  ol  vl 
acquaintance  who  wishes  to  renew  intimacy,  and  the  conde 
scending,  patronizing,  gracious,  encouraging,  and  affable  ex 
pression  of  a  superior  to  a  favoured  inferior. 

The  words,  the  bow,  and  the  condescending  smiles,  were 
only  answered  by  a  formal  and  repulsive  inclination  of  the  co 
median's  body. 

The  general  had  a  practised  face,  carefully  educated,  as  wr 
have  seen,  to  mask  the  movements  of  his  mind  ;  and  although 
he  felt  the  repulse,  he  did  not  show  the  shock  his  pride  had 
received,  or  evince  his  surprise  at  the  return  to  his  courtesy 
from  an  actor — "and  such  an  ugly  litde  fellow  too." 

He  proceeded.  "  I  was  prevented,  last  evening,  by  one  cir 
cumstance  or  another " 

The  words  "last  evening"  called  up  the  scene  (which  had 
been  from  the  time  recurring  to  Spiffard's  imagination)  in  the 
most  vivid  freshness.  It  was  present  to  him.  His  colourless 
cheeks  became  blue  ;  his  long  chin  dropped  ;  and  his  pale  lips 
quivered.  For  a  moment  the  upper  teeth  were  visible,  owing 
to  the  convulsive  motion  of  the  muscles  of  the  mouth  ;  but  by 
an  effort  he  closed  his  thin  lips,  and  held  them  firmly  com 
pressed  while  the  general  continued, 

"  I  was  prevented  asking  an  introduction  to  you,  but  I  deter 
mined  to  seek  you  immediately,  and  assure  you,  that  your  aunt 
and  myself  will  both  be  extremely  happy  to  see  you  at  our 
house."  Zebediah  bowed  coldly,  and  there  was  an  awkward 
pause.  At  length  he  said — 

"  I  suppose,  sir,  that  you  expect  me  to  thank  you  for  your 
invitation?' 

Even  the  general's  educated  visage  could  not  stand  this.  If 
became  a  blank.  It  denoted  a  chaotic  state  within,  that  is  any 
thing  but  comfortable.  The  water-drinker  proceeded. 

"  Until  I  know  more  of  you  and  of  Mrs.  Williams — for 
Williams  I  understand  is  your  name — until  I  learn  something 
more,  and  something  different  from  what  I  gathered  last  even 
ing,  I  beg  leave  to  decline  your  invitation,  or  more  intimate 
acquaintance." 

The  general's  face  almost  forgot  its  lessons.  Even  prac 
tice  had  not  made  perfect.  It  was  suffused  with  red,  far  be- 


Manoeuvring  and  plain  dealing.  1 1 

yond  the  medium  colour  of  tranquil  beauty  ;  but  its  master  re 
membered  that  there  was  a  point  to  be  gained  in  a  game  of 
some  moment ;  and  he  composed  it  to  an  air  of  surprise  before 
he  said  "  Very  extraordinary !" 

"Is  it  extraordinary  that  a  man  of  common  prudence  or 
common  sense,  should  decline  the  acquaintance  of  a  person, 
whom  he  has  only  seen  in  a  light  by  which  he  appeared  to  great 
disadvantage — to  say  the  least  1  Or  is  it  extraordinary  that  1 
should  shrink  from  contact  with  one,  although  the  sister  of  mj 
mother — one,  who,  from  some  cause,  which  probably  you  can 
explain,  was  considered  by  her  father  dead,  although  living? — 
one,  whose  name  was  prohibited  the  lips  of  her  pure  sister? — 
one,  who,  though  not  physically  lost  to  life,  was  dead  and  out 
cast  from  the  heart  and  hearth  of  her  father?" 

Williams,  glorious  actor  as  he  was,  could  act  no  longer. 
Spiffard  had  not  asked  him  to  be  seated.  He  leaned  on  the 
back  of  a  chair ;  and  as  the  young  man's  face  flushed  with  in- 
digaation,  and  his  eyes  flashed  the  meaning  his  words  express 
ed,  the  self-condemned  deceiver  became  pale,  cast  his  troubled 
glances  on  the  floor,  and  sunk  into  the  chair  he  had  caught  at 
for  support. 

Spiffard  stood  firmly  before  him — dignified  by  the  conscious 
ness  of  sincerity  and  rectitude.  Williams  at  length  said,  *'  I 
perceive,  sir,  that  you  know ,"  and  he  paused. 

"Sir,"  said  Spiffard,  "you  will  pardon  me,  perhaps,  if  I 
quote  a  line  from  a  play  on  so  serious  an  occasion,  but  *  I 
have  been  used  all  rny  life  to  speak,'  if  not  to  hear,  '  the  plain 
and  simple  truth,'  and  I  will  not  deviate  from  it  now.  I  have 
been  at  the  house  of  my  grandfather — the  father  of  your  wife. 
I  was  for  days  together  a  guest  and  a  child  in  the  family,  after 
your  wife  had  become  an  alien  to  it." 

Williams  started.  He  recovered  himself,  and  stood  up — 
not  erect — but  he  stood  up.  Your  habitual  man  of  courtesy, 
or  your  sycophant,  never  stands  perfectly  erect. 

"  You  would  not  wish  to  injure — to  destroy — your  unfortu 
nate  aunt?  Already  broken  down  by  disease,  which  is  cruelly 
misrepresented  !  After  what  she  has  suffered,  to  be  banished 
from  the  society  in  which  she  new  moves,  would  murder  her ! 
You  are  not  called  upon  to  mention  the — the  cause  of  her 
leaving  the  house  of  her  father.  You  will  not  ?" 

"  I  will  make  no  promise,  sir,  but  will  act  to  the  best  of  my 
judgment,  as  circumstances  may  appear  to  require.  I  will  not 
wantonly  or  unnecessarily  injure  you  or  your  wife  by  speaking 
of  you.  My  relationship  to  her  is  unknown." 


12  Manoeuvring  and  plain  dealing. 

Here  the  habitual  inclination  to  prefer  falsehood  to  truth, 
prompted  Williams  to  assent,  and  leave  Spiffard  in  ignorance 
of  his  having  divulged  so  much  of  the  secret  history  ;  but  he 
thought  of  the  danger  of  leaving  him  in  ignorance,  and  con 
cluded  that  it  would  be  best  to  mention  that  fact. 

"  Unfortunately,  perhaps,  my  love  of  candour  and  open  deal 
ing  has  caused  me  to  communicate  the  circumstance  of  your 
relationship  to  Mrs. Williams,  in  explanation  of  the  words  your 
aunt  made  use  of  in  public,  occasioned  by  the  surprise  at  hear 
ing  your  name." 

"  Then,  sir,  I  can  promise  nothing." 

There  was  a  long  and  very  awkward  pause.  Both  parties 
continued  standing.  Spiffard  stiff  and  strait,  as  is  very  much 
the  case  with  men  of  his  scanted  height — an  uprightness  for 
which  there  is  an  anatomical  cause,  separate  and  independent 
of  any  moral  impulse.  He  looked  up  in  the  face  of  the  gene 
ral,  whose  eyes  were  cast  down  as  if  examining  ihe  texture  of 
the  common  coarse  carpeting  on  which  he  stood.  At  length 
Williams  broke  the  silence. 

"  You  will,  however,  Mr.  Spiffard,  not  mention " 

And  he  paused,  as  if  at  a  loss  for  words  to  address  a  being 
so  dissimilar  to  any  he  had  been  accustomed  to — a  being  of 
whose  nature  he  had  not  a  distinct  notion — a  man  of  truth. 
Spiffavd  replied  to  the  broken  sentence. 

"I  will  not  start  the  subject ;  I  will  even  avoid  it,  or  any 
thing  that  might  lead  to  it ;  but  if  directly  questioned  by  any 
one  to  whom  I  think  an  answer  is  due,  my  answer  shall  be — 
truth." 

Another  pause  ;  and  the  discomfited  general  moved  towards 
ihe  door.  The  unbending,  arid,  in  this  case,  inhospitable  co 
median,  followed  him  in  silence. 

.  When  in  the  street,  and  before  covering  his  head,  although 
ihe  cold  wind — no  flatterer — waved  and  ruffled  his  silken 
locks  discourteously,  the  retreating  tactician  once  more  bowed 
aad  said — 

"  We  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  at  our  house." 

No  answer  was  returned,  and  the  door  was  shut,  almost  be 
fore  the  back  of  the  bower  was  turned. 

Neither  the  man  of  truth  nor  the  man  of  deceit  were  the 
happier  for  this  interview.  The  latter  felt  that  the  foundation 
on  which  he  relied  for  his  standing  in  the  American  world, 
was  sliding  from  under  him  ;  and  the  depth  to  which  he  was  to 
sink,  was  not  defined.  lie  saw  the  net-work  he  had  woven 


Manxuvring  and  plain  dealing.  1 3 

and  patched  for  years,  whenever  a  hole  happened  to  be  made 
in  it,  now  dissolving  like  a  thing  of  mist,  or  the  delusive  ban 
quet  raised,  to  cheat  the  eyes  of  his  dupe,  by  a  necromancer. 
The  light  was  pouring  in,  and  he  shrank  from  it  appalled.  He 
had  not  altogether  lost  confidence  in  his  long  tried  powers  ;  but 
no  redeeming  scheme  presented  itself.  He  would  willingly  have 
cursed  the  insolent  actor,  but,  like  Balaam,  he  was  constrained 
to  bless — for  involuntary  praise  is  blessing.  "  This  fellow  is 
too  honest  to  be  tampered  with."  After  his  interview  with 
Cadwallader,  equally  a  man  of  truth  and  honour,  he  had  burst 
forth  in  exclamations  and  curses.  He  had  reviled  his  country, 
her  institutions,  and  her  society.  But  as  he  walked  from  the 
player's  modest  dwelling,  he  experienced  something  of  the 
calmness  of  despair.  He  strove  to  rally  his  thoughts,  and  to 
send  them  on  service  to  the  dark  depths  of  his  sink-like  soul, 
to  seek  auxiliaries  in  the  narrow  precincts  and  obscure  corners, 
where  cunning  always  dwells.  As  he  passed  slowly  on  toward 
his  proud  dwelling,  his  outward  man  had  reassumed  its  wonted 
appearance  ;  he  went  on  bowing  and  smiling  in  courteous  re 
cognition  of  every  genteel  acquaintance  he  met,  until  he  reach 
ed  his  house — home  he  had  none. 

SphTard  had  of  late  been  in  a  constant  state  of  excitement. 
It  had  been  wrought  to  a  most  painful  height  by  the  events  of 
the  last  evening.  His  tendency  to  monomania  was  daily  in 
creasing.  He  did  not  accuse  himself  of  acting  wrong  in  his  in 
terview  with  Williams  ;  but  his  nature  was  of  the  kindliest  sort, 
and  he  felt  a  pang  in  consequence  of  having  treated  a  fel 
low-creature  harshly. 

He  turned  from  tne  street  door,  which  he  had  with  good  will 
interposed  between  the  general  and  himself.  He  regretted  that 
he  had  pushed  it  so  violently.  He  strode  through  the  short 
and  narrow  entry  to  the  room  he  had  just  left,  which  was  still 
vacant,  the  females  of  the  family  avoiding  it,  as  they  had  heard 
from  the  maid-servant  that  a  strange  gentleman  was  below. 
He  put  to  the  door  softly,  and  approached  the  tire.  He  saw 
in  the  red  hot  coals  the  faces  of  Williams  and  his  wife,'  and 
that  of  his  own  mother.  He  looked  up,  and  ejaculated  "  God 
forgive  me !  poor  creatures  I"  Who  he  meant  by  the  last  two 
words  may  be  doubtful.  He  wiped  the  tears  from  his  cheeks 
before  he  sought  the  company  of  his  wife^  He  felt  the  neces 
sity  of  hiding  his  emotion,  and  of  evading  any  questions  re 
specting  his  visiter.  "  Should  he  tell  her  that  there  were  cir 
cumstances  of  moment  to  him  which  he  could  not  confide?7' 

1* 


14  Manoeuvring  and  plain  dealing'. 

If  such  a  necessity  existed,  it  was  a  sad  and  ruinous  necessity. 
"Should  he  preserve  silence  altogether?'  He  knew  that 
every  man  should  look  for  advice  and  support  in  difficulty,  and 
for  increase  of  joy  by  sharing  it,  both  from  his  life's  partner ; 
still  he  had  douhts  ;  late  circumstances  bewildered  him.  He 
decided  wrongly. 


15 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  beginning  of  a  hoax. 
"Thus  his  special  nothing  ever  prologues." 


-let  times  news  be  known 


When  'tis  brought  forth." 
"  Puck.    Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be !" 
"  When  my  cue  comes,  call  me,  and  I  will  answer." 


-'tis  meet 


That  noble  minds  keep  ever  with  their  likes  : 
For  who  so  firm  that  cannot  be  seduced  T' 

"The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  "oft"  puts  on 
T'  entrap  the  wisest." 

"  None  are  so  severely  caught  when  they  are  catch'd 
As  wit  turn'd  fool." 

"Wink  at  each  other,  hold  the  sweet  jest  up; 
This  sport  well  carried  shall  be  chronicled." 

"Folly  in  fools  bears  not  so  strong  a  note 
As  fooleries  in  the  wise." 

"  It  is  much  that  a  lie,  with  a  slight  oath,  and  a  jest  with  a  sad  brow,  \yiil 
do  with  a  fellow  that  never  had  the  ache  in  his  shoulders." 

"You  have  some  offence  upon  your  mind, 
Which  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  my  place 
I  ought  to  know  of."  Shakspeare. 

YOUTH  !  how  delighted  dost  thou  revel  in  the  full  flow  of 
nature's  bounteous  stream,  swelling  to  expected  perfection  ! 
To  the  present  feeling  of  enjoyment,  and  to  the  unbounded  an 
ticipation  of  future  bliss,  how  open  is  youth  !  How  full  of  de 
light  and  how  beauteous  in  infancy,  although,  like  the  early 
blossom  of  spring,  it  feels  the  chills  that  its  nature  is  heir  to. 
We  press  the  elastic  muscle,  full  and  soft,  of  the  healthful 
child,  and  pass  our  fingers  through  the  glossy  curls,  and  fondly 
pinch  the  rosy,  dimpled  cheek,  and  gaze  in  the  laughing  eyes, 
and  express  with  enthusiasm  our  admiration  of  the  promise  na- 


16  The  beginning  of  a  hoax. 

lure  gives  of  its  future  perfection — we  know  not  what ;  but 
we  feel  and  know  that  we  love  youth  even  in  its  imbecility. 
As  it  approaches  to  and  attains  maturity,  how  admirable,  how 
lovely  is  youth  in  its  pristine  purity  ! 

Such  is  man's  love  of  youth,  and  so  prone  is  he  to  compare 
and  measure  all  else  by  himself,  that,  as  he  experiences  age 
and  decay,  and  sees  that  generations  after  generations  have 
sprung  up,  bloomed,  performed  the  acts  assigned  to  them,  sick 
ened,  withered,  and  died  ;  and  the  cities  and  kingdoms  of  the 
earth  have  in  like  manner  had  their  feeble  beginnings,  growth, 
and  death — their  childhood,  youth,  maturity,  splendour,  decline, 
and  fall.  When  he  looks  to  the  past,  and  sees  that  his  species 
and  all  connected  with  it,  have  ever  had  the  same  unvaried 
path  and  progress  through  life  to  extinction  :  that  the  infant,  the 
man,  and  the  tomb,  are  but  types  of  the  building's  corner 
stone,  erection,  existence,  dilapidation,  and  ruins  ;  and  both 
but  symbols  of  the  empire's  commencement,  growth,  glory,  in 
toxication,  reeling,  subversion,  and  utter  destruction  :  so  that 
he  looks  in  vain  for  the  traces  of  its  existence.  While  he  con 
templates  on  all  this,  the  thought  occurs,  that  even  "  the  great 
globe  itself,  and  all  that  it  inherits" — this  glorious  orb,  for  whose 
•use  the  sun  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  seem  to  have  been 
created — and  even  more,  that  this  immeasurable  universe,  of 
which  they  are  a  puny  part,  has  had  its  childhood,  its  youth,  its 
maturity,  and  must  have  its  decay  and  extinguishment.  Tims 
man  measures  the  infinite  by  his  own  finite.  But  shall  we 
say,  that  all  these  myriads  of  light-darting  suns,  with  their 
countless  revolving  planets,  the  proofs  of  the  Eternal  One,  his 
goodness  and  power,  are  only  formed  to  cease  ?  May  we  not 
think  that  the  Eternal  has  impressed  upon  them  the  image  of 
his  eternity "?  Even  in  this  our  planetary  habitation,  though 
ever  moving)  ever  changing,  we  can  perceive  no  indications  of 
decay.  Though  life  is  ever  ceasing,  it  is  ever  reviving.  As 
the  sea  recedes  here,  it  advances  there.  The  mountain  sum 
mit  is  washed  to  the  plain  and  to  the  ocean,  or  sinks  into  the 
bowels  of  the  earth — but  another  mountain  ascends  from  the 
plain  or  from  the  great  deep.  Wh<irc  the  arid  sand  of  the  do- 
sert  now  lies,  denying  sustenance  or  being  to  animal  or  vege 
table  life,  once  flourished  the  date  and  the  palm,  and  every 
living  thing  in  its  full  perfection — man,  in  his  greatest  pride. 
And  who  can  say,  that  the  same  power  which  caused  its  former 
fertility,  will  not  cause  the  mountain  to  start  from  the  sands  of 
the  desert,  and  pour  the  river  from  the  hill  upon  the  barren 
plain  ;  causing  the  fountain  to  spring,  the  herb  to  grow,  and 


The  beginning  of  a  hoax.  IV 

every  living  thing  to  flourish  ;  peopling  the  same  region  agair, 
with  life,  and  youth,  and  joy — not  again  and  again  to  see  dis 
ease,  decay,  and  death,  but  perfection  and  immortality? 

Though  man  may  not  measure  the  power  of  God  by  his 
own  weakness,  he  may,  and  must,  love  youth,  beauty,  and  pu 
rity  ;  and  while  such  love  is  active  in  him,  he  must  adore  hi& 
infinitely  good  Creator. 

But  while  we- talk  of  youth,  we  are  growing  old.  Time  flies, 
and  our  story  is  yet  to  be  told. 

The  incident  in  the  life  of  Zebediah  Spiffard,  which  I  ai& 
now  to  relate,  produced  consequences  which  could  not  hava 
been  foreseen  by  the  most  quick-sighted.  The  actors  in  the 
scenes,  connected  with  this  incident,  were  of  course  blind  to  their 
results  ;  nor  could  they,  by  any  knowledge  of  the  past,  have 
the  most  remote  conception  of  the  events  which  followed; 
otherwise  they  would  have  refused  their  participation  ;  or  in 
phraseology  suggested  by  the  words  4'  actors"  and  "  scenes/' 
they  would  have  thrown  up  their  parts.  But  in  this,  as  in  many 
other  instances,  jocund  youth  led  on  to  sport,  ending  in  repen 
tance  and  sorrow. 

The  train  of  unintended  and  unexpected  events,  materially 
affecting  our  hero's  future  life,  must  be  ascribed  partly  to  the 
discrepancy  existing  between  Spiffard  and  his  companions  of 
the  theatre,  (and  the  associates  of  those  companions,)  and  partly 
to  the  circumstances  attending  his  various  domestic  ties. 

The  opening  scene  of  these  volumes  has  given  the  reader 
some  notion  of  the  contrasted  characters  of  the  water-drinker, 
and  the  gay  young  men  his  choice  of  profession  had  brought 
him  in  contact  with.*  The  dinner  at  Cato's  further  introduced 
these  gentlemen  to  notice. 

This  discrepancy,  combined  and  mingled  with  domestic  cir 
cumstances,  made  the  winter  of  1811  and  '12,  productive  of  a 
succession  of  miseries,  a  complication  of  in 'hating  and  stinging 
tortures,  to  the  hero  of  our  tale,  such  as  few,  .with  his  purity  of 
mind  and  action,  have  been  called  upon  to  endure.  The  suf 
ferings  he  experienced  were  occasioned,  in  part,  by  faults  of 
commission  and  omission,  with  which  he  is  justly  chargeable* 
(as  is  the  case  with  most,  perhaps,  all  men  ;)  and  these  faults 
might  be  traced  to  the  early  incidents  of  his  life,  his  defective 
education,  and  his  unguided,  unrestrained  modes  and  habits  of 
thinking  as  well  as  acting. 

His  natural  good  temper,  and  his  musical  as  well  as  conver 
sational  talents,  made  him  a  welcome  guest  among  the  gay 
.young  friends  of  the  manager,  at  the  same  time  that  hut 


18  The  beginning  of  a  hoax. 

artlessness  tempted  them  strongly  to  amuse  themselves  by 
what  they  intended  as  innocent  tricks,  and  playful  pranks,  to 
the  effects  of  which  his  unsuspicious  nature  made  him  ob 
noxious.  These  sports  might  have  passed  off  harmless,  and 
oflen  had  done  so  ;  sometimes  ending  in  the  triumph  of  the  man 
of  temperance ;  but  the  unhappy  position  in  which  he  found 
himself  placed  at  this  time,  by  his  hasty  matrimonial  con 
nexion,  and  the  effects  of  meeting  his  mother's  sister,  were 
powerful  causes  in  producing  most  untoward  effects.  He  was 
involved  in  perplexities,  which,  as  we  have  seen,  ho  feared  to 
communicate  the  knowledge  of  to  that  person,  whose  duty  as 
well  as  interest,  it  was,  most  of  all  others,  to  assist  him  with  con 
solation  and  counsel :  the  person,  of  all  others,  who,  it  is  the 
duty  as  well  as  interest  of  every  man,  to  trust  with  his  fears,  his 
doubts,  and  his  perplexities — his  wife.  With  every  disposition 
to  frankness,  he  became  incommunicative  where  most  he  should 
have  confided.  We  shall  see  the  result. 

While  our  hero's  affairs  were  in  this  posture,  and  his  natu 
rally  imaginative  and  irritable  mind,  in  this  state  of  excitement, 
he  and  the  young  gentleman  we  have  before  mentioned  by  the 
name  of  Allen,  met  at  the  front  door  of  the  theatre  ;  the  latter 
lounging  toward  the  boxes,  more  to  kill  ennui,  than  from  love 
of  Shakspeare ;  the  first  hastening  from  the  green-room,  where 
his  majestic  wife  was  left  adjusting  the  robes  of  the  Thane's 
ambitious  lady,  before  a  mirror  capable  of  reflecting  her  lofty 
and  splendid  figure,  previous  to  her  first  entrance  on  the  stage 
for  the  evening.  Already  Mrs.  Spiffard  had  established  her 
fame  in  this  character  ;  still,  her  husband  was  anxious  to  see 
the  reception  she  would  meet  from  a  brilliant  audience,  many 
of  whom  were  already  thumping  with  sticks,  and  stamping  im 
patiently,  for  the  show  to  commence  ;  for  to  the  thumpers  and 
stampers,  Macbeth  was  little  more  than  a  show. 

Mrs.  Spiffard,  as  my  intelligent  reader  already  knows,  was 
eminently  gifted  by  nature  for  the  representative  of  the  ambi 
tious,  guilty,  and  sublime  Lady  Macbeth.  Her  tall  and 
masculine  frame  :  powerfully  expressive  eye  ;  strongly  marked, 
black,  flexible  brow,  and  mental  energy  in  the  expression  oi' 
passions,  (by  no  means  uncongenial  to  her  nature,  or  stranger* 
to  her  vigorous  but  ill  regulated  intellectual  faculties,)  would 
have  made  her,  had  they  been  brought  together,  no  contempti 
ble  rival  to  the  great  Lady  Macbeth  of  the  English  stage. 

"Ha!  Mr.  Spiffard,  I  am  glad  to  encounter  you  for*,"  said 
Allen.  "  You  must  give  me  your  opinion  of  the  play  and  the 
acting.  Cooper  has  got  it  up  in  magnificent  style ;  and  has 


The  beginning  of  a  hoax.  19 

added  to  his  reputation  by  playing  Macbeth.  Don't  you  think 
so  ?  Is  it  not  his  best  part  1" 

"  We  actors  must  be  cautious  when  we  speak  of  actors.  I 
think  the  Hamlet  of  Cooper  even  better  than  his  Macbeth.  But 
we  shall  see  Cooke  likewise,  though  not  to  advantage.  I  will 
speak  frankly  of  the  play  and  the  players  generally,  provided 
you  give  me  your  opinion  of  Mrs.  Spiffard's  performance." 

"  Agreed.  I  have  seen  her  in  the  character  before ;  by  Jove, 
she  is  superb  !  Let  us  go  into  this  box." 

"  No.  These  boxes  are  crowded.  There  is  more  room 
aloft :  besides  I  don't  like  to  sit  below — I  am  too  notorious." 

"  Well,  well ;  but  not  the  upper  tier  ;  that  is  truly  too  noto 
rious.  Let's  go  into  the  Shakspeare." 

This  was  a  spacious  central  box  in  the  second  tier ;  prin 
cipally  occupied  by  men,  and  supposed  to  be  the  resort  of 
critics.  They  took  their  seats  accordingly,  rather  back  from 
the  stage,  the  front  seats  being  already  crowded.  The  play 
commenced. 

Allen  would  have  spoken,  but  SpiiTard  quietly  remarked — 
"  Between  the  acts  there  is  time  enough  to  compare  notes. 
Let  us  now  see,  hear,  and  observe." 

Mrs.  SpirTard  outdid  herself,  and  exceeded  her  husband's 
expectations.  She  was,  indeed,  the  undaunted  leader  of  the 
wavering  Thane.  The  instigator  to  atrocious  murder.  The 
woman  who  could  unsex  herself  to  place  a  crown  on  the  head 
of  her  husband.  Who  could  herself  have  done  the  deed  of 
blood,  but  that  the  victim  resembled  her  father.  She  embodied 
herself  with  the  character  ;  for  it  suited,  as  she  felt,  her  appear 
ance,  and  her  histrionic  powers.  The  soul  with  which  the  poet 
had  endowed  his  creation,  was  transfused  into  the  actress,  as 
the  fabled  magician,  leaving  his  own  body,  could  animate  the 
body  of  another,  and  accomplish  his  wishes,  by  appearing  in  the 
corse  of  one  he  had  murdered.  She  possessed  the  queen-like 
port  and  towering  height  of  Siddons,  though  not  the  elegance  of 
her  form.  She  could  assume  the  insidious  smile  and  courteous 
action,  when  she  welcomed  the  good  Duncan  to  the  castle, 
where  the  nest  of  the  swallow  betokened  purity  of  air,  although 
she  had  already  plotted  the  manner  of  his  death.  The  high  tone 
of  her  ill-governed  mind  enabled  her  to  conceive  and  express 
the  feelings  of  the  haughty  Scottish  dame,  while  urging  the 
Thane  to  treason  arid  inhospitable  homicide. 

With  an  elevated  head,  surrounded  and  coped  with  locks 
and  braids,  glossy  and  black  as  the  raven's  plumage  ;  with 
murky  brows,  that  could  be  elevated  to  a  crescent,  or  bent 


20  The  beginning  of  a  hoax. 

into  the  contorted  wavings  of  a  serpent ;  with  a  voice  deep 
toned  and  clear,  she  spoke  and  looked  the  destiny  of  the  man 
who  would,  but  dared  not. 

All  the  scenes  in  which  these  terrible  powers  were  displayed 
by  the  actress,  had  been  witnessed  by  her  husband,  before  the 
occurrence,  which,  as  we  shall  see,  occasioned  his  leaving  the 
front  of  the  theatre.  Allen  remained,  and  saw  the  consumma 
tion  of  her  art ;  the  triumph  of  her  power  over  the  audience. 

When  in  the  troubled  wanderings  of  guilt-directed  somnam 
bulism,  the  actress  appeared  in  her  white  night  clothes^colour- 
less,  desolate,  the  black  masses  of  dishevelled  hair  streaming 
portentously  over  the  snow-white  dress  ;  her  glaring  eyes  start 
ing  from  their  sockets,  to  gaze  upon  the  little  bloody  spot  thai 
would  not  "out."  That  head  so  lofty  and  regal,  which,at  theban- 
quet,  had  been  decorated  with  a  royal  diadem,  now  devoid  of 
ornament  or  covering.  The  tresses  which  then  had  been  min 
gled  with  sparkling  jewels,  now  hanging  in  lines  on  each  side 
of  the  pallid  countenance,  and  only  striking  the  beholder  with 
admiration  of  their  unusual  profusion,  as  they  float  over  her 
snowy  garments,  forming  a  long  black  veil,  almost  sweeping 
the  floor  as  she  stalks,  ghost-like,  and  with  her  -death-white 
fingers  strives  to  erase  from  her  hand  the  stain  fixed  upon  her 
soul.  When  the  spectators  beheld  this,  breath  seemed  sus 
pended,  and  silence  was  only  broken,  when,  by  the  vanishing  of 
the  figure,  the  magic  of  the  scene  ceased. 

This  last  great  exhibition  of  his  wife's  tragic  powers,  Spif- 
ford  had  not  seen.  For  while,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  he  had 
been  absorbed  in  admiration  of  the  previous  incidents  of  the 
play — while  he  was  administering  balm  to  his  soul  by  the 
thought,  "  surely  such  a  mind  will  rise  superior  to  all  that  in 
unworthy" — while  filled  with  new  hope,  and  elevated  by  a  dig 
nified  matrimonial  reflection  from  the  mirror  of  the  stage,  two 
rough  and  clownish  fellows,  enveloped  in  coarse  furzy  over 
coats,  boisterously  entered  the  box.  They  might,  from  their 
exterior  and  manner,  have  been  two  frequenters,  if  not  inha 
bitants,  of  the  Five-points,  who  had  mistaken  their  way,  and 
stumbled  upon  the  haunts  of  refinement  instead  of  those  devoted 
to  noise  and  vulgarity.  They  strided  from  seat  to  seat,  leaving 
on  eac'i  the  marks  of  their  dirty  boots,  as  I  have  seen  men  in 
better  clothing  do  upon  the  benches  of  the  pit.  These  ruffians 
taok  a  station,  standing,  by  the  side  of  Spiffard,  almost  touch 
ing  his  elbow  as  he  sat. 

The  noise  they  made  in  the  lobby,  and  on  their  entrance, 


The  beginning  of  a  hoax.  21 

had  annoyed  our  sensitive  man  of  temperance.    Their  mode  of 
approach  and  attitude  annoyed  him  still  more.     His  sense  of 
propriety,  and  his  physical  senses,  shared  in  the  suffering  ;  he 
heard  the  crackling  of  roasted  pea-nuts,  and  his  olfactories 
were  assailed  by  tho  smell  of  those  rivals  of  Shakspeare, 
mingled  with   others,  of  tobacco  and  alcohol,  brought  in  their 
clothing  from  the  last  tavern  they  had  loitered  in.     The  senses 
of  a  temperate  man  are  acute  in  proportion  to  their  purity. 
The  moral  as  well  as  physical  sense  of  Spiffard  was  oiil-r.' 
his  peculiar  circumstances  increased  the  offence. 

The  total  indifference  to  the  passing  scene,  which  the.-e  in 
truders  evinced,  aggravated  the  irritation  of  SpifTaid.  He  arose. 
He  looked  in  their  faces.  They  looked  over  his  head.  He 
mounted  on  the  seat  and  stood  beside  them,  swelling  with  in 
dignation  as  near  as  might  be  to  the  size  and  height  of  the 
offenders.  They  heeded  him  not.  He  resumed  his  scat,  that 
he  might  not  disturb  the  performance. 

"  Who  is  that  tall  raw-boned  grenadier  of  a  woman  ?"  said 
one.  "  She's  a  thunderer." 

"  That's  Lady  Macbeth." 

"  She's  a  roarer.  Any  thing  but  a  lady,  thank' ee !  Unless 
its  a  landlady.  Fine  feathers  make  fine  birds ;  or  else  she 
looks  more  like  a  landlady  from  Banker-street,  than  a  woman 
fit  for  a  room  like  that.  See  how  she  tosses  her  black  mop 
about,  and  knits  her  burnt-cork  eye-brows  at  Cooper." 

This  dialogue  attracted  the  attention  of  Allen,  who  had  been 
carried  away  by  the  passing  scene  of  the  stage.  Spiffard  saw 
this,  and  felt  as  if  it  was  incumbent  upon  him  to  repress  the  in 
solence  of  these  disturbers  of  peace  and  defiers  of  decency. 
The  neighbouring  young  men,  too,  had  their  attention  drawn 
from  the  stage,  and  with  the  levity  of  youth  began  to  laugh : 
and  one  or  two  of  them  looked  at  Spiffard,  as  if  recognising  hi 
him  the  husband  of  the  actress  on  whom  these  indecent  re 
marks  were  made.  At  least  he  thought  so.  Again  he  tried 
to  look  them  into  silence.  That  again  failed.  His  choler 
rose — and  he  rose.  Spiffard  was  conscious  of  his  own  ex 
traordinary  muscular  strength,  his  agility,  and  his  skill  in  all 
the  arts  of  defence.  He  felt,  and  perhaps  truly,  that  he  could 
throw  either  of  these  big  bullies  into  the  pit ;  but  he  made  a« 
marked  a  distinction  as  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  between  de 
fence  and  offence  ;  and  such  an  act  might  be  particularly  of 
fensive  to  the  quiet  people  below.  He  squared  himself  with 
an  air  of  defiance,  and  of  threatened  hostility.  The  aggressors 


22  The  beginning  of  a  hoax. 

still  overlooked  him.  When  the  drop-curtain  fell,  at  the  ter 
mination  of  the  act,  he  sprung  upon  the  seat,  and  his  enemies 
not  only  looked  towards  him  but  made  way  for  him. 

Fixing  his  eyes  on  the  nearest  of  his  unwelcome  neighbours, 
Spiffard  said,  with  firmness  and  deliberation, — "  You  may 
imagine  yourselves  wondrous  witty  in  your  remarks  on 
the  play  and  actors  ;  but  you  may  be  assured  they  savour 
more  of  ignorance  than  humour.  Before  you  recom 
mence,  what  I  consider  impertinence,  I  must  inform  you, 
that  the  lady  of  whom  you  have  spoken  disrespectfully,  is  mj 
wife.  To  disturb  an  audience  is  a  mark  of  blackguardism  in 
which  I  did  not  think  fit  to  imitate  you.  But,  if  the  imperti 
nence  is  repeated,  I  am  willing  and  able  to  punish  it."  Spiff 
ard  appeared  to  be  in  earnest.  His  antagonists  felt  that  they 
were  wrong.  The  offenders  looked  first  at  Spiflard  and  his 
handsome  herculean  companion,  Allen — then  at  each  other — 
laughed — and  as  they  meant  nothing  by  their  frivolous  and 
thoughtless  ribaldry,  they  turned  away  from  the  incensed  come 
dian,  and,  quiting  their  conspicuous  situation,  silently  left  the 
box;  not  without  covering  their  retreat  by  an  affected  laugh." 

Spiffard  felt  himself  a  victor.  The  enemy  had  fled,  and  ha 
was  undisputed  master  of  the  field.  He  had  been  the  cham 
pion  of  decency,  good  order,  the  fair  sex  generally,  and  hi* 
own  wife  in  particular.  He  enjoyed  the  glow  of  self-approba 
tion,  and  after  having  retained  his  triumphant  stand  for  a  few 
moments,  he  resumed  his  seat ;  but  soon  left  his^companion — 
descended  from  the  Shakspeare — passed  through  the  lobbies 
with  longer  strides  than  usual — walked  somewhat  heroically 
out  of  the  theatre — passed  through  the  crowd  of  blackguard* 
in  its  front — groped  his  way  through  Ann-street  and  Theatre- 
alley — (places  at  that  time  the  resort  and  habitation  of  vice  and 
depravity)  and,  having  entered  the  back  door  of  the  play 
house,  marched  into  the  green-room  with  a  dignified  air,  ap 
proaching  a  little,  to  swagger — passed  unnoticed  by  the  students 
who  were  conning  their  parts,  at  the  last  moment,  before  the 
expected  summons  of  the  call-boy — and  took  his  stand  with 
his  back  to  the  fire,  (a  coat  skirt  under  each  arm)  as  much 
like  a  thorough  John  Bull,  as  could  be  expected  from  one  of 
John's  Yankee  progeny,  even  when  swelling  with  the  pride  of 
self-approved  prowess,  and  longing  for  an  opportunity  10  relate 
the  circumstances  attending  upon  recent  victory. 

If  our  readers  think  such  feelings  incompatible  with  our 
water-drinker's  good  sense  and  real  dignity  of  character,  let 
them  look  back  to  their  own  lives,  and  examine  the  motives 


The  beginning  of  a  hoax.  23 

for  many  of  their  past  actions.  Let  them  seek  for  the  causes 
of  those  moments  of  exultation  in  which  they  have  felt  like 
heroes  of  romance,  defying  fortune  or  foe  to  harm  them  :  or 
of  those  sinkings  of  the  soul,  when  humbled  in  spirit,  nothing 
on  earth  or  in  the  air — nothing  in  mar,  "  or  woman  either," 
delighted  them  ;  and  probably  they  will  find  their  causes  for 
pride  or  despondency  as  little  "  german  to  the  matter"  as  those 
which  now  swelled  the  bosom  of  Zebediah  Spiftard.  Disease, 
water-gruel,  nausea,  sea-sickness,  or  dire,  indefinable  dyspep 
sia,  are  the  devils  which  pull  down  courage  :  while  good  appe 
tite,  a  good  dinner,  and  good  digestion,  lift  a  man  to  the  skies, 
as  surely  as  gas  does  a  balloon,  unless  he  is  well  providcdjwith 
ballast.  Now,  the  consciousness  of  having  prevented  the  in 
terruption  of  rational  enjoyment  in  hundreds  of  well-disposed 
citizens,  and  of  having  put  down,  by  just  reproof,  the  insolence 
directed  against  a  female,  is  a  better  cause  for  exultation  than 
beef  or  pudding,  even  when  "  good  digestion  waits  on  appe 
tite  and  health  on  both." 

Spiffard's  recreant  adversaries  only  laughed  at  the  adven 
ture,  and  soon  forgot  the  tall  lady  with  black  hair  and  eye 
brows,  or  her  short  sturdy  husband.  The  incident  I  have  re 
lated  produced  no  effect  on  their  future  lives,  that  I  know  of. 
Not  so  with  our  hero.  Trifling  as  the  circumstance  may  ap 
pear,  it  was  one,  among  other  seemingly  trifling,  but  realljr 
potent  causes,  which  affected  all  the  future  course  of  his  life; 
and  aided  in  inflicting  the  keenest  pangs  of  misery,  and  a  de 
plorable  death,  on  a  highly  gifted  being. 

We  left  Spiffard  backing  the  green-room  fire.  The  warmth 
of  a  good  fire  is  no  inoperative  cause  when  properly  applied — 
and  philosophy  has  determined  that  heat  expands  matter. 

It  was  Mr.  Cooper's  custom  to  walk  into  the  green-room - 
occasionally  in  his  way  from  his  dressing-room  to  the  stage. 
Zeb  tried  to  catch  his  eye  in  vain.  He  was  too  full  of  his  own 
kingly  attributes  to  notice  the  low  comedian.  lie  proceeded 
to  and  fro,  he  visited  his  festive  hall,  or  his  castle  of  Dunsinane, 
without  appearing  to  note  any  thing  of  the  real  life  of  these  de 
generate  days,  when  men  die  if  their  throats  are  cut,  or  the 
'*  brain  is  out,"  and  do  not  rise  to  "  push  us  from  our  seats." 

Spiffard's  desire  to  communicate  grew  with  disappointment. 
He  found  an  opportunity  to  mention  the  incident  to  the  stage- 
manager,  Mr.  Simpson,  who  approved  his  conduct,  but  did  not 
appear  to  enter  sufficiently  into  the  victor's  feelings,  or  appre 
ciate  fully  the  service  he  had  done. 


24  The  beginning  of  a  hoax. 

He  ascended  to  Cooke's  dressing-room,  and  finding  the 
veteran  at  leisure,  and  disposed  to  listen,  he  related  his  adven 
ture  a  second  time.  The  variation  was  very  little  from  the 
first,  which  was  very  literal.  Cooke,  who,  as  has  been  said, 
played  Macduff  to  Cooper's  Macbeth,  the  two  tragedians  occa 
sionally  playing  second  to  each  other,  was  not  called  to  <;  go 
on"  until  he  had  heard  and  warmly  approved  his  young  friend's 
conduct.  lie  was  cool  and  collected,  for  his  late  sufferings 
had  not  yet  lost  their  salutary  effect.  He  was  at  leisure,  for 
Macduff  was  in  England  and  had  not  yet  heard  of  the  masuacre 
of  his  "  little  ones.  That  important  personage,  the  cull-bov, 
(whose  usual  duty  only  extends  to  calling  performers  from 
ths  green-room,  but  is  stretched  to  the  dressing-rooms  of  the 
magnates  of  the  drama)  at  length  appeared,  and  shouted, 
44  Macduff."  Macduff  hastened  to  the  scene  of  action,  and 
Spiffard  was  left  with  trustworthy  Davenport,  who  opportunely 
entered  with  the  call-boy. 

"  A  great  house  to-night,"  said  Trusty.  ;i  They  swarm  like 
a  snarl  of  bees,  before  hiving,  at  the  sound  of  a  warming-pan. 
I  don't  wonder  at  it,  when  there  is  three  sich  great  actors,  and 
sich  a  play  to  be  seen. 

"  A  fine  house,"  said  Spiffard. 

"  To  my  notion,"  continued  the  traveller,  "  Mrs.  Spiifard 
beats  all  the  world  to-night.  I'm  not  easily  frit,  but  darn  me, 
if  she  didn't  almost  scear  me  just  now." 

"  Why?  have  you  been  in  front,  Davenport?" 

"  No,  sir,  I  have  been  standing  behind  the  prompter,  and 
looking  over  his  head.  I  should  be  puzzled  to  do  that  tiling, 
if  Mrs.  Spiffard  was  prompter,  for  she  is  a  most  a  magnificent 
woman — 'most  as  tall  as  I  be." 

Zeb  stretched  himself  as  high  as  Davenport's  shoulder. 

44  Did  you  notice  any  disturbance  in  the  boxes  while  Mr>. 
Spiffard  was  on  the  stage?" 

u  *Not  the  dropping  of  a  feather  : — only  when  they  made  all 
shake  again  with  applauding  her.  What  a  thunder-clap  that 
xvas,  to  be  sure  !" 

Spiffard  could  not  resist  the  tempting  opportunity  ofiV-rcd 
by  his  brother  Yankee's  leading  remarks,  and  he  told,  for  the 
third  time,  the  adventure  of  the  Shakspeare  box,  with  but  little 
variation. 

At  length  the  tragedy  was  over;  Spiffard  took  his  stand 
again  before  the  green-room  fire,  to  wait  for  his  wife. 

Cooper  having  lost  both  crown  and  life,  was  sooner  restored 
to  the  habiliments  of  commoners  than  the  lady,  and  joined  the 


The  beginning  of  a  hoax.  23 

comedian.     Soon  after  Simpson  and  Hilson,  wht>  were  dread 
ed  for  the  farce,  added  to  the  party. 

"  Spiffard,  have  you  been  in  front?' 

"  Yes ;  and  I  never  was  more  provoked  in  my  life." 

"  How  ? — What  could  ruffle  your  equanimity  ]" 

"  Two  blackguards  came  into  the  Shakspeare  box  and  dis 
turbed  the  audience  while  Mrs.  Spiffard  was  in  one  of  her  best 
scenes ;  and  the  scoundrels  made  use  of  insolent  language 
respecting  her — her  person — her  acting — and  I  think  I  can 
appeal  to  any  one  in  favour  of  her  Lady  Macbeth  at  all  times." 

44  That  you  may." 

"  She  certainly  never  play'd  it  or  look'd  it  better,  than 
to-night." 

"  More  than  well,"  said  Hilson. 

"  That's  equivocal,"  said  Cooper. 

"  No,  upon  my  honour  I  mean  fair  and  honest." 

"  But  you,  Spiff,  when  they  insulted  Mrs.  Spiffard  ? — What 
said  you  ?"  asked  the  manager. 

'*  '  This  maybe  sport,'  said  I,  '  to  you,  but  it  is  a  serious  in 
jury, — a  wanton  outrage  upon  the  feelings  of  the  audience  and 
the  actor  or  actress.'  " 

"  '  Sport  to  you,  but  death  to  us, 'just  what  the  frogs  said  to 
the  boys  when  they  pelted  them." 

"  Pooh,  Tain,  don't  interrupt  the  story." 

'•  '  Your  remarks  are  impertinent' — I  don't  mean  yours  Hi'- 
son — and  '  savour  more  of  ignorance  than  wit.'  " 

"  Very  well,  Spiff,  I'll  mark  you  for  that,"  said  Hilsor. 

l<  4  None  but  blackguards  would  insult  a  female  or  disturb 
the  representation  of  scenes  in  which  the  feelings  of  an  au 
dience  are  deeply  interested.'  •' 

"  Well.     What  said  they." 

"  They  look'd  at  each  other,  and  then  ut  me,  as  much  as  to 
say,  '  who  are  you  V — I  answered  the  look '? 

"  With  a  look?' 

'•  ;  I  am  that  lady'.s  husband.'  They  look'd  at  each  other 
a-i'aui — appeared  to  icel  like  fool.s  by  quitting  their  places,  for 
they  were  standing  on  the  scats  of  the  box,  and  soon  after 
they  shuffied  off,  as  well  as  taov  could.'' 

"  And  left  you  '  cock  of  the  walk,'  as  Mik-toue  says.'' 

"  We  ought  all  to  thank  yen,"  said  Cooper.  ':  the}  were 
your  pea-nut  fellows,  I  suppose." 

The  reader  will  observe  that  this  recital  varied  somewhat 
from  the  scene  as  he  witnessed  it.  These  were  not  the  very 
words  that  were  spoken.  Yet  Spiffard  did  not  mean  to  mis- 


26  The  beginning  of  a  hoax. 

represent.  This  was  more  than  a  thrice-told  tale.  Who 
among  us.  lovers  of  truth  as  we  all  are,  tells  the  same  story  in 
the  same  words? 

In  very  truth,  there  is  something  very  strange  in  this  ma 
chinery  of  ours: — excitement  or  depression  ;  winding  up,  or 
running  down  ;  causes  those  sounds  which  we  call  words,  to 
vary  not  only  in  tone  but  signification  ;  and  a  little  variation  in 
the  light,  materially  changes  the  picture.  Zebediah  Spiffard  is 
our  hero,  and  an  adorer  of  truth  :  yet.  he  was  but  a  man.  He 
was  tempted,  perhaps,  by  the  influence  of  his  light-hearted 
companions,  to  deviate  from  the  strict  letter  of  his  story,  and, 
like  many  others,  whose  memoirs  have  not  yet  been  published, 
dearly  he  paid  for  it. 

It  can't  be  too  strongly  insisted  upon,  in  defence  of  Spiffard, 
that  this,  as  has  been  already  said,  was  the  fourth  time  that  he 
told  this  story, — perhaps  it  was  the  hundredth  time  that  he  had 
thought  it  over.  Now,  there  is  a  poetical  spirit  in  mankind,  or 
at  least  in  some  men,  and  women,  which  amplifies,  or  magni 
fies,  or  adorns,  or  distorts,  according  to  circumstances,  with 
out  any  criminal  intention  of  falsifying  or  deceiving,  but  merely 
from  an  amiable  desire  to  appear  well  in  the  eyes  of  our  hear 
ers,  as  we  dress,  decorate,  and  show  ourselves  to  the  world, 
not  to  gratify  ourselves,  but  to  give  pleasure  to  others. 

Of  all  men,  Zebediah  Spiffard  was  the  most  conscientious  in 
his  statements  of  i'act ;  the  most  literal  in  his  repetition  of 
words,  when  cool  and  collected  ;  but  now  he  was,  and  hud 
been  for  some  lime,  in  a  continual  state  of  excitement;  and  his 
imagination  (always  active)  unnaturally  vivid.  *  Will  he,  nill 
he,'  his  imagination  would  colour  his  words,  and  even  his 
cheeks  had  a  tinge  of  red  in  consequence  of  its  activity. 

"  What  manner  of  men  were  these  1"  inquired  Cooper. 

"  Of  very  bad  manners,  I  should  think,"  said  Hilson. 

"  Tarn,  keep  your  stage  jokes  till  you  meet  those  who  relish 
them.  If  you  speak  before  you  get  your  cue,  I'll  forfeit  you. 
What  did  the  fellows  look  like,  Spiff?" 

"  Rough  looking  fellows,  wrapped  up  in  coarse  great  coats." 

"  You  behaved  like  a  hero.  1  doubt  not  they  were  some  of 
your  pea-nut-munchino-  gentry.  I  will  petition  the  corporation 
for  an  ordinance  prohibiting  the  sale  of  pea-nuts,  from  the  hour 
of  six  until  ten,  p.  M." 

««  Why  those  hours  ?"  asked  Hilson. 

"  Because  the  intermediate  hours  are  devoted  to  tragedy — 
tragedy  hours.  They  may  eat  as  many  pea-nuts  as  they  please 
while  you  are  mumming  Numpo." 


The  beginning  of  a  hoax.  27 

By  this  time,  Cooke  had  doffed  his  harness,  and,  arrayed  in 
suit  of  sober  grey,  entered  the  green-room.  He  joined  the 
group  of  young  men  by  the  fire.  Spiffard  went  out  to  inquire 
if  his  wife  was  ready  to  go  home. 

u  So,"  said  George  Frederic,  "  Mr.  Spiffard  has  had  an  affair 
with  some  persons  who  behaved  improperly  in  the  boxes.  I 
give  him  credit  and  thanks  for  putting  down  the  illiberal  imper 
tinence  of  these  box-lobby-loungers." 

"  Pooh  !  they  were  only  a  brace  of  blackguard  swaggerers," 
was  Hilson's  remark.  **  They  didn't  know  the  difference  be 
tween  box  and  gallery." 

"  The  ticket-seller  might  teach  them  that.  No,  no.  I 
gather  from  what  Mr.  Spiffard  told  me,  that  they  were  men  of 
some  bearing." 

"  Bears,  I  doubt  not,"  lisped  Hilson. 

"  They  found  themselves  in  the  wrong  box,  and  crept  out," 
continued  Cooke. 

"  They  saw  by  his  squaring,"  added  Hilson,  laughing  and 
lisping,  that  Spiff  was  a  boxer  ;  and  as  Allen's  square  shoul 
ders  were  ready  to  back  him,  they  backed  out.  Don't  you  call 
this  4  backing  your  friends?' 

"  I'll  bet  a  hundred,"  said  the  manager,  "  that  Spiffard  be 
gins  to  think  this  an  affair  of  some  consequence.  Hark'ee, 
Tarn,  couldn't  something  be  made  of  this  1" 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spiffard  entered.  The  gentlemen  made  way 
for  the  towering  and  fine-looking  dame.  Cooke  complimented 
her  on  her  great  performance.  She  replied  in  an  appropriate 
manner — cast  one  glance  at  the  full  length  mirror  of  the  green 
room — bowed  her  "  good  night"  to  the  young  gentlemen — 
shook  hands  with  George  Frederick — took  her  husband's  arm 
— and — they  were  gone. 

Spiffard  walked  off  with  his  stately  and  over-topping  dame, 
better  pleased  with  her  and  with  himself,  that  both  had  acted 
well.  He  had  not  felt  so  much  satisfied  with  his  lot,  since  the 
scene  in  the  park.  They  had  no  sooner  disappeared,  than 
Cooke  observed, 

"  That's  a  fine  actress  ;  and  a  fine  woman." 

"  A  great  woman,"  said  Hilson  ;  "  and  Zeb's  a  great  man,, 
for  a  man  no  greater.  And  I  think  he  behaved  most  heroically 
to-ni^ht ;  and  what's  more,  he  thinks  so,  too." 

"  He  is  what  the  old  dramatists  call  '  a  tall  fellow,'  "  said 
Cooke. 

"  Of  his  inches." 


28  The  beginning  of  a  hoax. 

"  You  envy  him  his  tall  wife." 

tf  He  showed  courage  when  he  attacked  that  castle." 

**  While  this  passed,  sportively,  between  Cooke  and 
Cooper  was  in  a  revery. 

44  Good  night,  lads,  and  good  thoughts,"  said  the  veteran — 
for  Trustworthy  entered  to  announce  a  hack,  ready  for  the 
convalescent  tragedian,  who  left  the  scene :  a  scene  where 
actors  and  actresses  were  reading  their  "  parts,"  preparatory 
to  their  "going  oh;"  some  refreshing  raemory  ;  some  conning 
over  that  which  had  been  neglected — some  trying  to  compre 
hend  the  meaning  of  a  passage,  to  which  their  cue  furnished 
no  clue.  There,  two  might  be  seen  rehearsing  a  dialogue ; 
and  near  them,  a  third,  reciting,  aloud,  speeches  from  an  author : 
the  whole  forming  a  medley  of  babel-like  sounds,  proceeding 
from  the  motley-dressed  company. 

"  Cooper,"  said  Hilson,  "  though  I  like  to  quiz  Spiff,  I  think 
he  has  pluck.  If  these  same  fellows  had  shown  fight,  the  af 
fair  might  have  ended  in  a  box-lobby  challenge." 

The  tragedian  made  no  answer,  but  stood  with  his  brow 
most  terrifically  knit.  Hilson  continued,  chuckling,  "  I  wish 
that  the  bullies  had  turned  upon  Zcb,  only  for  the  fun  of  it.  I 
suppose  they  were  big-boned  Goliahs,  who  might  think,  con 
jointly,  to  make  a  meal  of  one  of  us  middle-sized  gentlemen  ; 
or,  singly,  to  put  Spiff  into  either  of  their  coat-pockets  ;  but 
they  would  have  found  him  a  hard  bargain." 

11  What  did  you  say  about  challenge  V 

"  I  ?     Nothing." 

"  '  Darkly  a  project  peers  upon  my  mind,  like  the  red  moon 
when  rising  in  the  east.'  " 

l-  Numpo  !"  said  the  call-boy. 

"  Tarn,"  .<niel  Cooper,  very  deliberately,  *'  do  you  and 
Ned " 

"I'm  called." 

"  Stop.  Do  you  and  Ned  Simpson  meet  me  in  my  room, 
aJ'ter  tie  farce, '' 

"  I  have  been  called." 

"  Old  Kent  has  orders  for  a  supper •"' 

"  Terrapins  1" 

u  Terrapins.  It'  I  do  not  mistake  my  talents,  or  Kent's,  / 
will  produce  a  plot  shall  give  zest  to  his  supper.  I  will  edify 
you  with  a  plan  of  operations,  that  aptly  carried  into  execution, 
will  try  little  Zebediah's  courage  to  the  heart  of  it." 

"  Why,  Cooper,  you  don't  think " 


TJie  beginning  of  a  hoax.  29 

"  Stage  waits !"  shouted  the  call-boy,  bouncing  into  the 
room. 

"  Stage  waits  !"  cried  the  stage-manager,  running  in.  Off 
scampered  Hilson. 

"  Simpson,  be  sure  you  forfeit  Tarn  for  that,"  said  the 
laughing  tragedian  ;  <;  and  be  sure  to  come  to  my  room  when 
the  curtain  falls."  Thus,  for  the  present,  parted  those  who 
were  to  be  the  plotters,  in  pure  sport,  against  the  peace  of  Zel> 
Spiff,  the  water-drinker. 


VOL.    II. 


30 


CHAPTER  IV. 


Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alley. 

"  Yea,  the  darkness  is  no  darkness  with  thee,  but  the  night  is  as  dear  as 
the  day." — David,  King  of  Israel. 

"  Towards  his  design  moves  like  a  ghost." 

"  These  eyes,  like  lamps,  whose  wasting  oil  is  spent, 
Wax  dim  as  drawing  to  their  exigent." 

"  Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud." — Shakspeare. 

"I  know  not  what  disposition  has  been  made  of  my  plantation  at  Cay 
enne,  but  I  hope  Madame  de  Lafayette  will  take  care  that  the  negroes  who 
cultivate  it,  shall  preserve  their  liberty.5' — Lafayette. 

"  Mistake  me  not  for  my  complexion."—  Shakspeare. 

"There  is  something  in  ihe  nature  of  man,  by  means  of  which,  as  long 
as  he  is  not  penetrated  with  the  sentiment  of  independence — as  long  as  he 
looks  up  with  a  self-denying  and  a  humble  spirit  to  any  other  creature  of 
the  same  figure  and  dimensions  as  himself,  he  is  incapable  of  being  all  that 
man,  in  the  abstract,  is  qualified  to  be." — Godwin. 

"The  facility  of  relieving  the  coarser  distresses,  is  one  of  those  circum 
stances  which  corrupt  and  harden  the  rich,  and  fills  them  with  insolent 
conceit,  that  all  the  wounds  of  the  human  heart  can  be  cured  By  wealth." 

Mackintosh. 

WE  will  turn  our  eyes  from  the  mimic  scenes  of  the  stage, 
and  the  bustling  drama  of  the  green-room,  to  scenes  and  cha 
racters  contrasting  with  the  first  by  their  reality,  and  with  the 
second,  by  their  sober  tone  of  feeling  ;  yet  agreeing  with  both, 
in  that  they  are  equally  belonging  to  our  story. 

Let  it  be  remembered,  that  at  the  time  of  which  we  write, 
plays  were  performed  (at  the  only  theatre  in  New- York)  but 
three  times  a  week — except  that  an  occasional  Saturday  night 
was  pressed  into  the  manager's  service.  The  occurrences 
which  we  are  now  to  relate,  happened  on  the  evening  after 
those  of  the  last  chapter. 

Every  body  conversant  with  New-York,  its  streets,  and 
alleys,  knows  that  there  is  a  narrow  passage  behind  the  park 
play-house,  called  Theatre-alley.  We  have  introduced  the 


Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alley.  31 

reader  to  this  thoroughfare,  already,  in  an  early  chapter.  Of 
this  place,  the  building  from  which  it  derives  its  name  forms 
nearly  one  side,  and  on  the  other  (at  this  time),  are  towering, 
miscalled,  fire-proof  store-houses,  and  manufactories  of  those 
potent  missiles,  fraught,  like  Pandora's  box,  with  good  and 
evil,  but  leading  on  the  human  race  to  its  destiny — books.  At 
the  north-east  corner  of  this  alley,  stands  a  stupendous  hotel, 
dedicated  to  temperance  and  every  godly  virtue.  This  pas 
sage  or  alley  existed  at  the  time  of  which  we  treat ;  but  of  all 
the  towering  walls  which  now  enclose  it,  none  were  in  being 
except  those  of  the  theatre. 

Opposite  to  the  back  or  private  entrance  to  this  building, 
stood  a  lofty  wooden  pile,  erected  for,  and  occupied  by,  the 
painters,  machinists,  and  carpenters  of  the  establishment ;  to 
the  north  of  which  (where  now  the  above-mentioned  tempe 
rance  hotel  is  planted),  were  several  low,  wooden  dram-shops, 
and  other  receptacles  of  intemperance  and  infamy;  and  to  the 
south,  several  taller  wooden  houses,  occupied  by  the  poor  and 
industrious  ;  one  of  which  tenements,  immediately  adjoining 
the  scene-house,  was  the  residence  of  John  Kent,  the  pro 
perty-man  of  the  theatre,  and  his  wife.  We  have  seen  in  the 
last  chapter,  that  among  other  properties,  he  was  to  furnish  a 
tarrapin-supper  for  the  young  manager  and  his  joyous  compan 
ions.  As  some  of  my  readers  may  not  be  sufficiently  initiated 
in  the  mysteries  of  stage-management,  I  will  tell  them  what  a 
property-man  is. 

Though,  in  such  matters,  I  do  consider  my  authority  as 
indifferent  good,  yet  I  will  first  give  higher.  Peter  Quince 
says,  "  I  will  draw  a  bill  of  properties,  such  as  our  play  wants ;" 
and  Bottom,  who  appears  to  be  the  manager,  gives  us  a  list  of 
beards,  as  "your  straw-coloured  beard,  your  orange-tawny 
beard,  your  purple-in-grain  beard,  or  your  French  crown-co 
loured  beard,  your  perfect  yellow."  •  \ 

That  I  may  not  mislead,  let  me  note,  that  actors  in  the  year: 
1811  found  their  own  wigs  and  beards;  but  then  property- 
beards  and  wigs  were  supplied  to  the  supernumeraries,  the 
"reverend,  grave  and  potent  seignors"  of  Venice,  the  senato 
rial  fathers  of  Rome,  or  parliamentary  lords  of  England. 

Quince  performed  the  part  of  the  prompter,  whose  duty  it 
was,  to  give  a  bill  of  properties  to  the  property-man  ;  and 
these  consisted  of  every  imaginable  thing.  In  the  Midsum 
mer  Night's  Dream,  for  example,  one  property  is  an  ass's 
head;  which,  if  not  belonging  to  the  manager,  or  one  of  the 
company,  the  property-man  must  find  elsewhere.  Arms  and 


32  Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alky. 

ammunition,  loaded  pistols  for  sham  mischief,  and  decanters  of 
liquor  for  real : — (for  though  the  actors  could  dispense  with  the 
bullets,  they  required  the  alcohol,) — love  letters  and  challen 
ges — beds,  bed-linen,  and  babies — in  short,  the  property-man 
was  bound  to  produce  whatever  was  required  by  the  incidents 
of  the  play,  as  set  down  in  the  "  bill  of  properties"  furnished 
by  the  prompter.  Such  was  the  office  of  John  Kent,  besides; 
furnishing  suppers  occasionally  for  the  manager,  and  doing  other 
extra  services,  for  which  he  was  well  remunerated,  and  experi 
enced  the  favour  of  his  employer.  He  was  habitually  kind — 
perhaps,  owing  to  former  situations  in  life,  he  was  rather  sub 
missive  ;  but  Cooke  used  to  say,  when  in  his  abusive  half-tipsy 
vein,  that  he  was  the  only  gentleman  about  the  house. 

This  worthy  couple,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kent,  had  no  children  ; 
and  the  wife  was  at  this  time  dying  of  consumption — real, 
honest,  much-to-be-pitied  consumption — not  that  disease  some 
times  so  called,  which  is  the  effect  of  folly  or  vice. 

Kent  and  his  wife  were  old.  In  youth  they  had  been  slaves 
to  the  same  master,  under  that  system  established  and  enfor 
ced  on  her  colonies  by  that  nation  who  at  the  same  time  boasted, 
justly,  "  that  the  chains  of  the  slave  fell  from  him  on  his  touch 
ing  her  shores  ;"  that  he  became  a  man  as  soon  as  he  breath 
ed  the  air  of  her  glorious  island  ;  yet,  with  that  inconsistency 
so  often  seen  in  nations  as  well  as  individuals,  sent  her  floating 
dungeons  with  the  heaviest  chains,  forged  for  the  purpose,  to 
manacle  the  African,  and  convey  him  to  a  hopeless  slavery 
among  her  children  in  America ;  even  refusing  those  children 
the  privilege  of  rejecting  the  unhallowed  and  poisonous  gift. 
But  England  has  washed  this  stain  from  her  hands  ;  while  the 
blot  remains  where  she  fixed  it,  and  has  produced  a  cancerous 
sore  on  the  fairest  political  body  that  ever  before  existed. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kent  were  not  Africans  by  birth,  but  descend 
ants  from  the  people  so  long  the  prey  of  European  and  Ameri 
can  avarice  ;  and  by  some  intermixture  of  the  blood  of  their 
ancestors  with  that  of  their  masters,  their  colour  was  that  which 
is  known  among  us  as  mulatto,  or  mulatre ;  still  they  were 
classed  with  what  people  of  African  descent  (who  abhor  the 
word  "  negro")  call  "  people  of  colour." 

The  master  of  this  couple  had  been  a  kind  one  ;  and  they 
had  both  received  the  rudiments  of  English  literature,  with  the 
foundation  of  a  good  moral  and  religious  education ;  so  that 
being  freed  by  his  will  at  his  death,  they  had  lived  reputably, 
without  the  means  however  of  accumulating  property  beyond 
decent  clothing  and  furniture.  Owing  to  the  long  sickness  of 


Our  heroine  in  Tlieatre-alley.  33 

the  wife,  honest  John's  emoluments  as  property-man,  had  not 
proved  sufficient  to  supply  the  much  valued  little  delicacies 
that  become  necessaries  to  the  sick  ;  and  which  were  the  more 
necessaries,  as  these  people,  having  been  house-servants  in  a 
wealthy  family  when  in  a  state  of  slavery,  had  been  accustom 
ed  to  many  of  the  luxuries  of  the  rich. 

Emma  Portland  became  acquainted  with  the  situation  of 
this  honest  pair  and  the  sufferings  of  the  woman,  by  observing 
in  the  first  place  the  conduct  of  the  man,  who,  in  his  capaci 
ty  of  property-man,  was  often  brought  under  her  view  while 
she  attended  upon  her  aunt  and  cousin.  Hearing  that  his  wife 
was  a  helpless  invalid,  she  introduced  herself  to  her  apartment 
and  bedside  ;  for  Emma  had  been  taught  not  to  shrink  from 
Ihe  duties  of  humanity,  when  most  wanted  ;  when  the  suffer 
ers  were  surrounded  by  objects,  or  divested  of  proprieties, 
rendering  their  situation  more  deplorable.  The  precepts  of 
her  master  as  she  read  them,  or  heard  them  read,  and  com 
mented  upon  from  the  pulpit,  were  as  seed  falling  on  good 
ground,  and  springing  up  into  fruits  of  well  doing. 

Neither  the  colour  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  house  (for 
Kent  only  occupied  an  upper  apartment,  and  below,  lived  a 
mass  of  deeper  tint,  with  marks  of  greater  poverty,  and  much 
less  of  worth  or  cleanliness,)  nor  any  objects  disagreeable  to 
sight,  could  deter  this  delicate  and  lovely  girl  from  frequent 
visits  to  the  worthy  and  grateful  invalid.  To  motives  of  duty 
and  benevolence  were  added  admiration  of  the  resigned  pa 
tience  of  the  sick  woman,  and  the  exemplary  attention  of  her 
husband.  Emma  carried  fruits  and  conserves  to  the  dying 
woman  ;  and  she  read  to  her  in  such  books  as  she  wished  to 
hear,  and  particularly  passages  in  the  bible. 

To  converse  with  the  well  disposed  poor — to  console  them 
in  sickness  or  grief — was  to  Emma  Portland  a  delightful  duty. 
It  sometimes  happened  that  the  conversation  when  she  was 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kent,  turned  on  topics  which  personally 
interested  her,  owing  to  Kent's  knowledge  of  affairs  connected 
with  the  theatre.  I  would  willingly  introduce  my  reader  to  one 
such  conversation,  before  relating  the  incident  which  is  the 
principal  subject  of  this  chapter. 

The  original  of  the  pioture  I  wish  to  paint,  could  only  be 
found  in  our  northern  portion  of  the  United  States,  and  I  will  not 
believe  that  my  readers  are  so  fastidious  as  not  to  take  pleasure 
in  the  contemplation  of  such  a  painting,  because  it  treats  of  the 
familiar  life  of  the  poor ;  there  shall  be  nothing  in  it  so  low  as 
is  seen  in  the  admired  paintings  of  many  a  famous  master.  I 


34  Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alley. 

would  willingly  execute  my  work  in  all  the  force  of  light,  shade, 
colour  ..and  expressionof  Rembrandt,  if  I  had  the  skill,  but  1 . 
feel  that  I  can  only  sketch. 

Three  figures  were  sitting  in  a  small  apartment,  ten  feet  by 
ten,  or  thereabout,  the  furniture  of  which,  though  decent  and 
clean,  showed  that  it  not  only  served  for  "  parlour,  kitchen  and 
hall,"  but  for  bed-chamber.  A  table,  small  and  of  plain  white- 
wood,  occupied  the  centre  of  the  room.  A  tin  lamp  stood  on 
this  table,  and  threw  its  light  in  just  gradation,  on  the  nearer, 
or  more  distant  objects  of  which  my  sketch  is  composed.  Op 
posite  to  the  door  and  near  the  fire-place,  where  some  bright 
culinary  utensils  reflected  the  rays  of  the  lamp,  stood  the  bed  ; 
on  which,  in  a  reclining  posture,  appeared  a  female  in  the  de 
cline  of  life,  much  emaciated  by  the  effects  of  a  wasting  chronic 
disease.  Her  dark  complexion  rather  than  her  features,  show 
ed  that  she  was  allied  to  the  African  race.  She  was  what  is 
called  in  the  West  Indies  a  quadroon.  Disease  had  blanched 
her  face,  and  the  hectic  red  on  her  cheek,  death's  seal,  marked 
her  approaching  dissolution.  Her  black  eyes  shone  with  that 
brightness  which,  to  those  who  know  its  cause,  is  so  touching, 
or  so  alarming. 

Having  given  the  dimensions  of  the  room,  I  need  not  say 
that  although  the  table  was  in  the  centre,  it  was  very  near  the 
bed,  and  not  far  from  the  fire-place.  On  the  mantel  were 
several  china  cups,  some  glasses  and  phials,  apples  and  oran 
ges.  Above  these  hung  an  india-ink  drawing,  a  copy  from  a 
print ;  it  was  enclosed  in  a  black  frame  and  covered  by  a 
cracked  glass.  Between  the  table  and  the  door  sat  a  man  of 
sturdy  frame,  but  time-worn  ;  his  age  appeared  to  be  si.tty. 
He  was  darker  than  the  woman,  and  his  features  more  African. 
His  crisped  iron-grey  hair  thickly  covered  his  head  and  shaded 
his  temples.  His  forehead  was  prominent ;  with  many  deep 
wrinkles  crossing  it ;  while  furrows  as  deep  marked  his  check. 
His  dress  was  that  of  a  labourer.  It  was  neat,  but  here  and 
there  patched  with  cloth  that  denoted  the  colour  originally  be 
longing  to  the  whole  garment.  He  held  his  spectacles  in  his 
left  hand  and  his  snuff  box  in  his  right.  His  eyes,  full  of 
respectful  attention,  were  fixed  on  the  figure  nearest  to  the  table 
and  lamp  ;  as  were  also,  but  with  a  more  earnest  gaze,  those 
of  the  reclining  invalid. 

The  figure  on  which  the  light  of  my  picture  is  concentrated, 
and  on  whom  the  rays  from  the  lamp  fell,  was  a  perfect  con 
trast  in  form  and  colour  to  her  companions.  She  was  seated 
by  the  table,  gracefully  bending  over,  and  reading  in,  a  bible 


Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alleij.  35 

that  occupied  its  centre.  The  light  of  the  lamp  illuminated 
strongly  the  book  of  the  reader.  This  made  her,  as  she  ought 
to  be^the  principal  figure,  as  well  as  the  central  one,  of  my 
canvass.  As  she  bowed  her  head  over  the  pages,  the  reflected 
light  from  the  paper  imparted  a  soft  radiance  to  the  lower  part 
of  her  countenance,  while  the  direct  rays  illumed  the  alabaster- 
forehead.  She  was  a  figure  of  light.  The  glowing  beams 
from  the  lamp  glittered  and  were  lost  among  the  clustering 
tresses  that  surrounded  and  crowned  with  golden  tints  this  por 
trait  of  a  virgin  saint. 

Emma  Portland  ceased  reading  and  said,  "  Do  I  fatigue  you, 
Mrs.  Kent?" 

*'  No,  Miss  Emma,"  was  the  reply;  "but  I  fear  you  will  fa 
tigue  yourself — you  read  as  if  you  felt  every  word." 

"  I  hope  I  do  feel  what  I  read  ;  and  I  hope  you  have  felt 
every  word." 

"  Miss  Emmy,"  said  Kent,  "  I  hope  it's  no  offence  to  say  so, 
but  you  read  better  than  any  body  I  ever  heard,  if  I  may  not 
except  Mr.  Cooke." 

"  A  good  reader,  an  excellent  scholar,  took  great  pains  to 
teach  me."  And  Emma,  as  she  spoke,  thought  of  her  lost 
brother. 

"  When  I  have  heard  Mr.  Cooke  read  over  his  part  in  his 
dressing-room,  it  was  just  the  same  as  talking,"  said  the  man*. 

"  So  all  good  reading  must  be.  It  is  only  varied  in  dignity 
or  familiarity,  as  the  subject  requires.  The  good  reader  must 
understand  and  feel  the  subject.  It  is  this  understanding  and 
feeling,  added  to  Mr.  Cooke's  powers  of  voice,  eye,  and  action, 
which  place  him  so  high  in  his  profession." 

"  When  you  make  your  appearance,"  the  sick  woman  said, 
"  if  I  live  I  must  see  and  hear  you." 

"If  you  are  not  too  much  frightened,  Miss  Emmy,"  said 
Kent,  "  you  will  be — you  will  do — I  will  not  say  what.  But  I 
remember  Mrs.  Darley,  when  she  was  Miss  E.  Westray,  and 
played  in  '  Lover's  Yows,'  and  '  False  Shame,' just  about  your 
age  ;  her  lovely  figure  and  innocent  face — and  you — " 

"  My  friend,"  said  Emma,  interrupting  him,  4<  you  speak  as 
if  you  thought  me  devoted  to  the  stage.  Be  undeceived.  It  is 
the  thing  farthest  from  my  thoughts." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  the  invalid. 

"  It  is  the  talk  of  the  theatre,"  said  Kent. 

"  I  can  say  I  certainly  never  will  be  a  player.  I  should 
prefer  a  very  humble  station  in  private  life,  to  the  most 
splendid  rewards  which  follow  on  the  applauses  of  a  theatre. 


36  Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alky. 

My  duty  has  carried  me  to  the  house  to  serve  my  cousin  and 
aunt.  I  have  been  gratified  to  hear  the  applauses  which  my 
cousin  receives,  when  she  gives  additional  force,  by  her  genius, 
to  the  lessons  of  the  tragic  muse  ;  but  I  never  wished  to  be  a 
teacher  in  that  school.  I  would  rather  open  the  way  to  know 
ledge  by  instructing  the  poor  little  neglected  ones  that  we  find 
in  holes  and  corners,  and  bring  to  our  Sunday-school.  There  I 
feel  that  I  am  doing  some  good  ;  and  I  do  not  seek  applause. 
In  a  short  time,  I  hope  to  be  excused  from  entering  the  walls 
of  the  theatre,  unless  to  see  and  hear  some  dramatic  piece  of 
my  choice  ;  for  there  are  many  that  I  have  seen  with  delight, 
and  many  that  I  wish  to  see." 

**  But  you  don't  intend  to  go  on  the  stage  as  an  actress  ?" 

14  Certainly  not." 

"  Thank  God,"  said  the  sick  woman. 

"  Thank  God,"  echoed  her  husband. 

Emma  looked  at  them  with  an  air  of  surprise.  There  was 
an  earnest  expression  in  the  tone  of  voice,  and  the  faces  of  the 
old  folks,  that  suggested  to  her  the  idea  of  relief  from  an  anti 
cipated  evil.  There  was  a  pause.  At  length  she  said,  '*  Why 
are  you  so  earnest  in  your  expression  of  satisfaction  that  I 
have  taken  such  a  resolution?" 

44  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  so,"  said  Kent ;  "  but  I  think 
—I  think  you  are  better  as  you  are." 

"  That  may  be,"  she  replied,  smiling.  "  I  might  be  the 
worse  if  I  failed  in  my  attempt,  or  I  might  be  intoxicated  by 
applause  if  I  succeeded.  But  although  I  do  not  wish  to  tread 
the  stage,  and  exhibit  myself  before  the  mixed  multitudes  I 
have  seen  in  the  play-house,  yet,  there  are  many  who  have 
passed  unhurt  through  the  trials  which  must  await  those  who 
challenge  public  opinion  in  this  manner,  and,  I  hope,  many 
who  have  been  of  service  to  others." 

44  After  another  pause,  Kent  said — 4<  Miss  Emmy,  I  hope  so 
too." 

44  Mr.  Kent,  you  must  have  known  many  excellent  per 
sons,  of  both  sexes,  who  have  been,  and  are  on  the  stage." 

44  Certainly.  But  I  believe  they  would  have  been  full  as 
good  if  they  had  never  been  there.  Miss  Emmy,  I  have  known 
the  play-house  and  the  actors,  ever  since  there  was  a  play  in 
the  country,  almost — and  to  tell  the  truth — " 

•'  Go  on,  Mr.  Kent." 

*'.!  would  not  wish  to  offend.     I  could  tell — " 

*4 1  am  sure  you  would  only  tell  the  truth." 


Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alley.  37 

"  That  you  may  depend  upon,  miss  ;  but  the  truth  is  not  to 
be  spoken  at  all  times." 

"  At  all  times?  Perhaps  not.  But  we  should  not  hesitate  to 
speak  the  truth,  and  the  whole  truth,  if,  by  so  doing,  we  can 
prevent  evil,  or  do  good." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  tell  all  I  know,  for  all  that." 

"  There  may  be  no  necessity.  But  if  we  knew  that  all  our 
misdeeds  would  be  seen  and  reported,  perhaps  we  should  act 
better  than  we  do.  The  actions  of  persons  who  make  the  stage 
their  profession,  are  more  scrutinized  than  those  of  men  and 
women  in  private  life  ;  otherwise,  perhaps,  they  would  not  be 
found  more  obnoxious  to  Censure." 

"John,"  said  the  sick  woman  ;  "  if  the  knowledge  of  what 
she  may  be  exposed  to,  can  prevent  any  young  person  from 
putting  themselves  in  the  way,  surely  the  truth  ought  to  be 
told." 

"But  Miss  Emmy  has  said  that  she  has  no  such  intention, 
and  that's  enough,  and  I'm  glad  of  it." 

"  How  came  you  to  be  brought  so  intimately  in  contact  with 
theatres,  and  theatrical  people,  Mr.  Kent  1" 

"I'll  tell  you,  miss.  My  master  wished  to  give  me  a  trade, 
and  as  I  always  had  a  notion  of  drav/ing,  he  put  me  apprentice 
to  a  house  and  sign-painter  that  lived  in  John-street,  near  the 
play-house ;  and  it  was  by  waiting  upon  my  4  6os'  that  I  got 
my  first  knowledge  of  actors  ;  for  as  there  was  no  scene-paint 
ers  then  in  the  country,  and  he  having  some  little  skill,  (little 
enough  to  be  sure,)  of  that  kind  of  work,  he  was  employed  for 
want  of  a  better  ;  and  I  ground  the  paints,  and  mixed  them,  as 
he  taught  me.  So,  by  and  by,  as  I  could  draw  rather  better 
than  60s,  I  became  a  favourite  with  the  actors." 

"That  drawing  over  the  fire-place,  I  understand,  is  one  of 
yours." 

"  Yes,  miss  ;  but  I  can't  see  the  end  of  a  camels-hair  pen 
cil  now." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  practised  scene-painting  1" 

"  This  was  in  the  year  seventeen  hundred  and  seventy  four, 
at  which  time  Mr.  Hallam  went  to  England.  Mr.  Henry  was 
the  great  man  of  the  theatre  then,  and  a  fine  man  he  was. 
When  I  left  New-York,  to  go  to  Canada,  there  were  four  sis 
ters  in  the  old  American  Company,  the  oldest  was  Mrs.  Henry; 
and  when  I  came  back,  after  the  war,  the  youngest  was  Mrs. 
Henry,  and  the  other  two  had  been  Mrs.  Henrys  in  the  mean 
while,  and  were  still  living.  This  was  a  long  time  ago.  Things 
have  mended." 

2* 


38  Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alley. 

"I  hope  so." 

Soon  after  Emma  prepared  to  leave  the  sick  woman.  Kent, 
who  generally,  on  such  occasions,  attended  her  with  a  lantern, 
had  been  called  away,  as  there  was  a  rehearsal  in  progress  on 
the  stage.  This  did  not  prevent  her  going,  as  she  had  done 
before,  through  the  southern  part  of  the  alley,  towards  Mrs. 
Epsom's. 

There  is  a  halo  which  surrounds  the  virtuous.  It  may  be 
seen  at  night  or  at  noon-day.  It  must  be  acknowledged  that 
there  are  those  so  blind  as  not  to  see  it  at  any  time.  Even 
Emma  Portland,  had,  on  one  occasion,  been  beset  by  two 
creatures,  dressed  like  gentlemen,  who  followed  her  until  a 
watchman  placed  himself  between  them  and  the  object  of  their 
persecution.  They  then  slunk  away  like  things  of  darkness, 
shunning  the  sturdy  watchman  as  a  ghost  does  cock-crowing. 

The  conduct  of  the  watchman  attracted  Emma's  notice  ;  not 
because  of  this  act,  evidently  a  part  of  his  duty,  but  for  the 
respectful,  and  somewhat  peculiar  manner  in  which  it  wras  per 
formed.  The  nightly  guardians  of  our  city  are  respectable 
tradesmen,  who  add  to  the  comfort  of  their  families  by  this  oc 
cupation  ;  but  they  are  not  of  the  most  polished  manners.  The 
individual  who  thus  came  to  the  rescue  of  persecuted  beauty, 
had  an  air  of,  she  knew  not  what — a  something  that  raised  ima 
ges,  and  caused  thoughts,  indefinite  and  evanescent,  yet  giving 
her  confidence  while  in  his  presence  ;  although,  previously, 
she  had  felt  rather  shy  when  she  met  persons  of  his  description, 
probably  owing  to  impressions  derived  from  English  books. 
On  this  occasion,  the  watchman  followed  at  a  respectful  dis 
tance,  until  he  saw  her  stop  at  her  aunt's  house  ;  he  then  stood, 
as  if  determined  to  be  convinced  of  her  safety,  nor  moved  until 
she  had  entered  and  closed  the  door.  She  had  not  seen  his 
face,  or  heard  his  voice. 

From  this  time,  she  felt  more  than  her  usual  security  iu 
passing  from  the  sick  woman's  chamber  to  her  home.  If  she 
thought,  (which  she  seldom  did,)  of  danger,  she  thought  of  the 
friendly  watchman  at  the  same  time  ;  and  once  or  twice  she 
almost  imagined  that  she  saw  him,  indistinctly,  at  a  distance  ; 
he  never  appeared  to  see  her.  If  it  was  the  same  person,  it 
was  strange  ;  but  she  had  no  fear  of  danger  from  him.  We 
are  great  advocates  of  the  doctrine  of  sympathies  and  antipa 
thies  ;  and  we  think  they  operate  full  as  much  on  individuals  of 
opposite  sexes,  as  they  do  on  those  of  the  same.  Philosophers 
will  hereafter  settle  this  point. 

The  same  evening  on  which  the  conversation  occurred  by 


Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alley.  39 

the  bed-side  of  the  invalid,  as  above  recounted,  another  adven 
ture  was  experienced  by  Miss  Portland,  which  exposed  her 
still  more  to  a  just  apprehension  of  violence. 

It  was  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  when  Emma  left  the 
abode  of  the  honest  property-man  and  his  sick  wife  ;  and  ex 
cept  the  light  which  issued  from  the  back  door  of  the  theatre, 
(open  that  evening  for  a  pantomime  rehearsal,)  the  street  or 
alley  was  in  perfect  obscurity.  Knowing,  as  she  did,  how  much 
the  invalid  relied  upon  her  for  consolation,  in  the  trying  hour 
which  was  fast  approaching,  Emma's  visits  of  charity  had  been 
so  frequent,  and  she  had  become  so  familiar  with  the  route, 
that  as  she  glided  with  rapid  steps,  she  was  almost  uncon 
scious  of  the  presence  or  absence  of  any  other  living  creature 
but  herself,  in  the  lonely,  narrow,  and  dark  passage  she  was 
threading.  She  had  not  proceeded  far  on  her  way,  when  she 
heard  the  door  of  the  theatre  open,  and  turning  her  head,  she 
saw  the  figure  of  a  man,  by  the  light  which  momentarily  issued. 
She  thought  nothing  of  this ;  it  was  a  frequent  occurrence, 
when,  (as  she  knew  was  then  the  case,)  the  stage  was  occupied 
by  performers.  Quick  steps  were,  however,  heard  approach 
ing  her.  The  strides  were  long,  and  notwithstanding  her  usual 
light  and  elastic  walk,  were  fast  overtaking  her.  She  approach 
ed  the  wall  of  the  theatre  to  let  the  person  pass ;  and,  at  the 
same  time,  slackened  her  pace.  The  sound  of  steps  approach 
ing  were  very  close,  but  much  slower  than  before.  She  stopped, 
nothing  doubting  but  it  was  the  man  whose  person  she  had 
seen  as  he  issued  from  the  door  of  the  theatre,  and  who,  even 
in  that  momentary  glance,  had  impressed  on  her  the  image  of 
a  tall  and  gentlemanly  figure.  When  arrived  opposite  to  her, 
the  pursuer  arrested  his  steps,  and  in  gentle  accents,  begged  per 
mission  to  attend  her  through  the  solitary  passage.  She  knew  the 
voice  was  that  of  a  stranger;  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  tones 
struck  on  her  ear  as  similar  to  sounds  she  had  heard,  but  when, or 
from  whom,  she  had  no  recollection  of  circumstances  to  guide 
her  to  any  conclusion  ;  and  she  could  only  see  enough  of  the 
figure  to  discern  that  it  was  a  remarkably  tall  person,  and  enve 
loped  in  a  cloak.  Indefinite  as  her  impressions  were  respect 
ing  the  voice,  it  excited  sensations  very  unusual  in  her,  and 
nearly  allied  to  terror.  Drawing  up  her  fine  figure  to  its  ut 
most  height,  and  darting  a  look  at  the  person  who  addressed 
her, she  said,  "  pass  on,  sir!" 

"  This  is  a  dangerous  place  for  youth  and  beauty.  Permit 
me  to  accompany  you  until  you  have  passed  this  dismal 
street." 


40  Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alley. 

"  Pass  on,  sir !"  she  repeated,  as  the  stranger  placed  himself 
more  in  her  path. 

"  You  must  not  be  offended,  lovely  girl ;  when  out  of  this 
place,  you  have  only  to  command  my  absence — " 

'*  I  command  it  now.  I  must  judge  for  myself  of  the  neces 
sity  of  protection.  None  is  needed,  but  from  such  importunity 
as  you  now  assail  me  with." 

44 1  cannot  forego  this  opportunity — " 

tk  Your  appearance  is  that  of  a  gentleman  ;  and  your  figure 
indicates  a  time  of  life  that  cannot  claim  excuse  from  inexpe 
rience.  Pass  on  before  I  call  for  assistance." 

"  I  have  sought  this  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you." 
"  You  are  mistaking  me  for  some  other." 
"  0,  no,  there  is  none  like  you.     I  have  watched  for  your 
coming  out  from  that  house,  where  I  have  often  observed  you 
to  go  ;  and  I  must — " 

Emma  was  by  this  time  convinced  that  she  had  heard  the 
same  voice  before,  and  memory  recalled  the  occurrence  on  the 
private  stair-way  of  the  theatre.  This  was  the  person  who  had 
blown  out  the  lamp,  and  waylaid  her,  when  descending  from 
the  dressing-room  of  her  aunt  and  cousin.  The  conviction 
flashed  upon  her,  and  the  feelings  that  overcame  her  were  gain 
ing  upon  her  rapidly.  He  attempted  to  take  her  hand.  She 
recoiled  as  from  a  serpent,  and  would  have  called  for  help,  but 
found  that  her  voice  did  not  obey  her  will.  She  looked  up  and 
down  the  black  and  lonesome  alley,  in  the  hope  that  some  one 
would  appear. 

*'  Why  this  terror — my  object  is  your  happiness  ;  I  know 
your  dependant  situation — " 

The  terrified  girl  heard  him  not ;  but  seeing  a  light  glim 
mering  from  the  door  of  the  theatre,  the  thought  suddenly  sug 
gested  itself  of  seeking  a  place  of  refuge  in  that  house  which 
this  same  persecutor  had  caused  her  to  abjure.  She  suddenly 
turned  and  attempted  to  retrace  her  way;  but  before  she 
could  take  a  step,  she  found  herself  impeded  by  the  arm  and 
cloak  of  her  assailant — she  shrieked — the  clang  of  a  watch 
man's  bludgeon  was  heard  on  the  pavement  beyond  the  asylum 
she  had  in  yiew,  and  at  the  northern  extreme  of  the  alley.  This 
signal,  which  is  equivalent  to  the  rattle  used  in  Europe,  gave 
her  courage,  and  she  disengaged  herself,  as  she  again  shrieked 
for  "help."  In  a  moment  she  was  alone.  As  she  hesitated 
whether  to  return  or  pursue  her  way  towards  her  aunt's,  she 
looked  to  the  door  of  the  theatre,  and  saw  several  persons  come 


Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alley.  41 

out,  who  were  immediately  lost  in  the  darkness.  She  deter 
mined  to  go  from  them,  and  towards  her  home,  although  she 
heard  the  footsteps  of  the  wretch  who  had  assaulted  her,  pur 
suing  the  same  course  ;  but  she  knew  that  a  few  steps  would 
bring  her  to  Ann-street  and  place  her  in  safety.  She  hastened 
on  in  the  same  direction  with  the  person  whom,  the  moment 
before,  she  had  turned  back  to  avoid — she  saw  him  by  the 
light  of  the  street,  beyond  the  alley,  turn  towards  Broadway, 
and  she,  taking  the  opposite  course,  after  issuing  from  the 
abodes  of  poverty  and  vice,  gained,  without  further  molestation, 
the  shelter  of  her  aunt's  dwelling. 

The  persons  who  had  issued  from  the  playhouse,  had  been 
met  by  the  watchman  whose  signal  put  the  aggressor  to  flight. 
Uncertain  from  whence  the  voice  crying  for  help  proceeded — 
(a  cry  not  uncommon  in  that  neighbourhood  at  that  time) — he 
had  stopped  to  make  inquiry  of  the  histrions  :  his  inquiries,  and 
their  conjectures,  had  given  Emma  time  to  escape  observa 
tion  and  to  reach  home,  as  she  thought,  unnoticed  ;  but  as  she 
cast  a  furtive  glance  back,  before  closing  the  door,  she  saw  a 
watchman  returning  towards  the  theatre.  "  Could  it  be  that 
the  same  individual  had  again  watched  over  and  protected 
her?" 

She  found  Mrs.  SpifTard  and  her  mother  busy  in  preparation 
for  the  next  evening's  performance.  Mr.  Spiffard  was  read 
ing.  The  ladies  made  some  inquiries  respecting  the  sick  per 
son  ;  which,  being  answered,  Emma  retired  to  her  chamber. 
She  was  agitated  by  the  recollection  of  the  late  occurrence  : 
not  that  she  feared  personal  injury.  She  knew  herself  and 
the  country  of  her  birth  too  well.  But  to  be  insulted  by  the 
licentious  address  of  a  stranger  who  had  been  on  the  watch  for 
her.  To  have  so  narrowly  escaped  the  mortification  of  being 
seen,  flurried,  frightened,  and  crying  for  help — seen  by  stran 
gers — in  such  a  place.  Then  the  certainty  that  she  was  syste 
matically  pursued  by  some  one  whose  perseverance  might  ren 
der  him  dangerous.  That  he  was  not  one  of  the  performers,, 
she  was  convinced,  from  her  knowledge  of  the  members  of  the 
company.  Their  persons  and  voices  were  too  familiar  to  her 
for  mistake.  She  felt  that  her  freedom  of  action  was  con 
tracted,  and  feared  that  she  might  be  circumscribed  in  her 
efforts  to  do  good.  She  debated  with  herself  on  the  propriety 
of  speaking  to  Mrs.  Spiffard,  her  cousin,  on  the  subject.  She 
concluded  not.  There  was  one,  to  whom  she  would  relate 
the  circumstance.  She  determined  not  to  expose  herself  to 


42  Our  heroine  in  Theatre-alley. 

like  insult  unless  called  imperiously  by  duty  to  the  pestilential 
neighbourhood,  where  the  poor  are,  from  necessity,  mingled 
with  the  depraved,  and  where  the  licentious  feel  licensed  to 
prowl.  She  opened  a  book  that  was  a  gift  from  her  brother. 
She  read — she  prayed ;  and  with  a  quieted  mind  retired  to 
the  rest  of  the  pure  and  virtuous. 


43 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  hoax  progresses. 

"  Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth." 

"  All's  brave  that  youth  mounts,  and  folly  guides." 

{v  Nature  hath  framed  strange  fellows  in  her  time  ; 
Some  that  will  ever  more  peep  through  their  eyes 
And  laugh  like  parrots  at  a  bag-piper. 

"  With  mirth  and  laugher  let  old  wrinkles  come." 

"  Men  may  construe  things,  after  their  fashion, 
Clean  from  the  purpose  of  the  things  themselves." 

"  I  combat  challenge  of  this  latten  bilbo." 

c:  He  is,  indeed,  sir,  the  most  skilful,  bloody  and  fatal  opposite  that  you 
could  possibly  have  found  in  any  part  of  Illyria."  — 


WE  have  seen  in  the  last  chapter  that  Emma  found  SphTard 
on  her  return,  reading.  But  he  read  to  little  purpose.  The 
events  of  the  day  had  troubled  and  perplexed  him. 

Before  we  recount  them,  it  is  necessary  to  mention  what 
passed  at  the  theatre  after  Numpo  made  the  stage  wait. 

The  sportive  manager  having  gone  through  the  arduous  part 
of  Macbeth,  and  received  ample  testimonies  of  the  approba 
tion  of  a  full  house  ;  and  after  having  tricked  Hilson  into  a  for 
feit  for  not  being  ready  to  '  go  on'  at  his  cue  ;  proceeded,  with 
all  the  happy  buoyancy  of  youth,  health,  wealth,  and  popu 
larity,  to  take  a  seat  in  the  boxes,  and  laugh  at  Numpo,  while 
Kent  procured  the  tarrapins.  His  object  was  merely  to  be 
guile  the  time  until,  the  farce  being  ended,  he  might  return  to 
meet  Tarn,  and  Ned,  and  other  worthies,  at  a  supper-table  in 


44  The  hoax  progresses. 

an  apartment  adjoining  his  dressing-room.  He  passed  to  the 
boxes  by  a  private  communication,  through  a  door  of  which 
he  carried  the  key,  and  repairing  to  the  Shakspeare,  found 
Allen  still  there,  who,  as  soon  as  the  curtain  fell,  accosted  him 
with,  '*  have  you  seen  Spiffard  lately?" 
"  Yes." 

"  He  had  nearly  got  into  a  quarrel." 
"  He  has  been  telling  us.     Pray  who  were  the  fellows?" 
"  Mere  blackguards.    Spiff  showed  spunk  I  can  tell  you." 
*'  Allen,  I  hare  been  thinking  that  sport  might  be  made  out 
of  this.     Could  not  we  make  up  a  challenge  ? — Conjure  up 
offended  honour  ? — Drag  wp  '  drowned  honour  by  the  locks' — 
ha?" 

"  No.     Certainly  not.   The  fellows  sneak'd  off  as  if  asham 
ed  of  themselves." 

"  Did  Spiffard  use  such  language  as  would  justify  a  gentle 
man  in  calling  him  to  an  account  and  demanding  an  apology?" 
"  Gentleman?  I  tell  you  these  fellows  were  mere  ruffians." 
"  No  matter.     We'll  make  gentlemen  of  them.     What  did 
Spiff  say?" 

"  He  told  them,  very  plainly,  that  they  were  backguards," 
"  That's  enough.     Come  with  me  to  my  room.     Tarrapins 
and  whiskey-punch.     One  of  these  gentlemen  who  have  lately 
been  so  grossly  insulted  is  a  man  of  nice  honour." 

"  They  either  of  them  looked  like  any  thing  else.     It  is  a 
hard  matter  to  make  a  silk  purse  you  know — " 
11  Imagination  can  make  any  thing." 
"  Two  such  rough  fellows,  in  coarse  furzy  great  coats — " 
"  Disguised.     Pooh !  Dress  is  nothing !  '  Leather  and  pru 
nella,'  you  know.     Two  gentlemen  on  a  frolic." 

"  Ah,  now  I  take.  And,  so,  one  of  these  gentlemen  in  dis 
guise,  must  demand  satisfaction  of  Spiff." 

"•  An  apology  or  the  duello.  He  don't  know  yonr  hand 
writing,  does  he  ?" 

"  No.     I  see  it !  It  will  do !  I'll  be  Lieutenant who?" 

"  Let  us  see.  A  captain  of  a  ship  might  suit  the  rough 
furzy  great-coat  better,  as  well  as  better  suit  our  purposes. — 
You  shall  be—" 

"  Bravo  !  I'll  be  Captain  Tomkins  or  Jenkins." 

•*  Smith.     Smith  is  every  body's  name  and  nobody's  name. 

Johnson  and  Smith  are  hanged  every  day.     You  shall  write 

to  Spiff  and  demand  an  apology.     I  will  be  his  adviser.     Wlio 

shall  be  his  second  ? — You  are  known  to  have  had  an  affair— 


The  hoax  progresses.  45 

yes — I  will  advise  him  to  put  his  honour  into  your  hands,  and 
then  we  have  him  in  sate  keeping." 

"  Capital !  That's  what  you  call  doubling.  I'm  to  be 
second  and  first.  Captain  Brown  and " 

"  Smith." 

"  Ay,  Smith.  I'm  to  be  the  offended  challenging  captain, 
and  second  to  the  adversary.  Who  shall  be  the  Captain's 
second  ?" 

*'  Some  one  that  Spiff  does  not  know." 

"  But  will  he  bite  ?" 

**  Never  fear.  At  all  events  we  shall  see  how  he  takes  th< 
demand.  He  has  acknowledged  that  he  bullied  the  men. 
He  knows  he  was  right  in  reproving  their  insolence.  He  will 
not  apologize.  Then  follows  the  rest  as  may  be." 

"  But  can  he  believe  that  they  were  gentlemen  1" 

"  In  disguise.  You  saw  them,  and  if  you  are  convinced  of 
it,  surely  he  may  be.  You  were  cool.  He  is  the  best  fellow 
in  the  world,  and  the  least  suspicious.  His  marriage  for  that. 
I  would  not  harm  Spiff  for  the  world,  but  it  will  do  him  good 
when  the  joke  is  known — it  will  cure  him  of  a  little  of  his  too 
much  good  faith  in  the  men  and  women  of  this  faithless  world. 
Come — the  tarrapins  wait.  After  supper  we  will  arrange  it 
all — cast  the  parts." 

The  company  met.  Men,  particularly  young  men,  are  very 
punctual  on  such  occasions.  The  tarrapins  were  discussed, 
as  was  the  hoax,  which  appeared  more  pregnant  with  sport  as 
more  wine  and  whiskey-punch  coloured  the  anticipated  in 
cidents. 

The  next  morning,  after  this  grave  consultation  in  the  ma- 
manager's  private  room,  Mr.  Spiffard  received  the  following 
letter,  which  was  left,  by  an  unknown  boy,  with  the  servant 
woman,  before  the  intended  victim  was  out  of  bed.  The  ser 
vant  was  enjoined  to  give  it  to  Mr.  Spiffard  as  soon  as  he  got 
up.  There  is  nothing,  for  effect,  like  receiving  a  letter  with 
some  bad  news,  or  a  disagreeable  call  for  money,  or  notifica 
tion  of  the  failure  of  a  debtor,  or,  "  sir,  your  bank  account  is 
overdrawn  10,000  dollars,"  or  such  and  such  notes  or  drafts 
are  protested  ;  such  a  letter  before  breakfast,  (or  such  an  one 
as  we  are  about  to  transcribe)  places  a  man  in  a  situation  si 
milar,  in  some  respects,  to  the  aspiring  cardinal,  when  his 
master  places  in  his  hands  the  proofs  of  his  guilt,  with — "  read 
over  this  ;  and  after,  this  ;  and  then  to  breakfast  with  what  ap 
petite  you  have." 


46  The  hoax  progresses. 

A  man  seldom  over-eats  himself  at  a  regular  meal,  after 
swallowing  a  luncheon  of  this  kind. 
The  letter  was  as  follows  : 

Jllbany  Coffee-house,  New- York. 
To  Mr.  Spiffard,  of  the  Park  theatre, 
Sm, 

The  ungentlemanly  epithets  you  thought  proper  to 
use  in  addressing  me  last  evening  at  the  theatre  were  passed 
over,  at  the  time,  to  avoid  a  disturbance  in  a  public  place,  but 
they  require  an  ample  apology.  I  take  this  method  of  in 
forming  you  who  I  am  and  where  I  am  to  be  found,  rather 
than,  in  the  first  place,  to  trouble  a  friend.  I  shall  be  at, 
home  to-morrrow  at  eleven  o'clock,  A.  M. 

Your  obedient  and  very  humble  servant, 

JOHN  SMITH. 

"  Apologize !  No.  Certainly  not.  Why,  what  did  I  do  to 
him  ?  Apologize  ?  Why,  is  it  possible  the  fellow  is  a  gentle 
man?  Apologize!  Poh!  I  suppose  I  am  to  be  challenged  for 
resenting  an  injury  offered  to  my  wrife  !  But  I  am  neither  fool 
enough  to  apologize  for  doing  right,  or,  to  expose  my  life  at  the 
call  of  a  ruffian  !" 

Appetite  for  breakfast,  however,  was  spoiled.  He  eat  little. 
He  was  silent.  His  mind  was  in  the  Shakspeare-box,  and 
imagination  recalled  the  scene ;  but  he  had  told  the  story  so 
often  that  the  images  became  confused.  He  strove  to  recall 
the  faces  and  figures  of  the  two  aggressors.  He  could  find 
nothing,  in  their  recollected  appearance,  that  indicated  gentle 
men.  He  remembered  their  sturdy  figures  and  rough  great 
coats,  much  more  perfectly  than  their  faces.  He  remembered 
that  they  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed,  without  replying 
to  his  reproof.  That  laugh — it  might  imply  a  consciousness  of 
something  that  did  not  appear.  How  deceitful  are  all  appear 
ances  !  He  thought  the  matter  over  in  every  possible  way,  but 
always  came  to  the  same  conclusion,  that  he  would  neither 
apologize  nor  fight. 

"  WThat's  the  matter,  Mr.  SpifTard  ?" 

"  Nothing,  my  dear." 

Now  this  was  unlike  himself.  It  was  false.  He  was  at  the 
moment  thinking  he  would  consult  Cooper.  Besides — how 
could  he  tell  the  truth  to  a  person  so  much  concerned  in  the 
affair  ?  So  he  excused  the  falsehood  as  a  thing  of  necessity. 


The  hoax  progresses.  47 

<£  I'm  sure  something  must  be  the  matter.  You  dont  eat  or 
speak." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  don't  I  tell  you  that  there  is  nothing  the 
matter?" 

Of  all  things,  when  a  man  is  discontented  with  himself,  and 
sullenly  silent,  the  most  provoking  is  being  asked,  "  what's  the 
matter  ?"  especially  by  his  wife ;  and  more  especially  if  he 
knows  he  has  uttered  an  untruth. 

"  There  was  a  very  fine  house  last  night,"  said  Mrs.  Spif- 
fard,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  at  the  recollection  of  her  triumph. 
Her  head  was  erect,  and,  as  she  adjusted  a  lock  of  her  glossy 
raven  hair,  she  repeated,  "  a  very  fine  house." 

"  Yes,"  said  her  husband,  his  head  supported  by  his  right 
hand ;  his  elbow  on  the  table  ;  his  figure  sunken,  and  his  eye 
lack-lustre — "  very  fine." 

"  A  truly  genteel  audience  !" 

"  Genteel!"'  He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair.  "  What 
did  you  say  of  genteel?" 

"  A  fine  show  of  gentlemen  and  ladies.  I  never  saw  a  better 
display  of  dress  in  the  boxes." 

"  Very — genteel."  And  the  two  fellows  with  rough  great 
coats  were  full  in  the  eye  of  his  imagination.  And  the  look 
and  laugh.  He  thought  he  recollected  that  one  looked  down 
upon  him,  before  that  sly  glance  at  his  companion  and  the 
suppressed  laugh.  The  men  began  to  appear  less  like  black 
guards.  One  of  them  even  began  to  assume  something  of  the 
gentleman,  notwithstanding  the  great-coat  and  pea-nuts. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Spiffard,  "  I  never  played  better." 

"  I  never  saw  you  play  so  well,"  and  he  thought  of  Mr. 
Smith's  remark ;  and  its  injustice,  as  well  as  insolence. 
**  Your  deportment  was  lofty  and  dignified.  You  looked  taller 
in  person,  as  well  as  more  towering  in  ambition,  than  Macbeth. 
Your  majestic  stature  seemed  increased  by  the  spirit  of  the 
lofty-minded  leader  of  the  thane.  The  characteristic  dress 
gave  force  to  the  majesty  of  your  deportment.  Is  it  possible 
that  any  one  could  object — "  By  this  time  Spiffard  had  affixed 
the  name  of  John  Smith  to  the  man  who  had  returned  a  smile 
in  answer  to  his  reproof;  and  in  imagination  he  saw  a  person 
very  different  from  that  who  in  reality  had  received  the  rebuke. 
Little  of  the  original  remained  but  the  rough  great-coat.  "  To 
be  sure  you  are  remarkably  tall." 

"  You  did  not  use  to  think  me  too  tall." 

"Too  tall?  What  did  I  say?" 

"  You  said,  '  to  be  sure  you  are  remarkably  tall,'  as  if  an 
objection  might  be  made  to  my  height,"  and  she  elevated  her 


48  Tfie  hoax  progresses. 

majestic  neck  and  head,  and  shook  the  curls  of  jet  that  might 
have  adorned  the  brow  of  Juno,  while  her  eyes  shot  rays  from 
a  towering  height  on  the  low-comedian. 

**  '  Remarkable' — that  which  is  remarkable  is  frequently  ad 
mirable — I  certainly  meant  nothing  disparaging  by  the  word — 
but"  and  he  looked  at  his  watch,  "  I  beg  pardon — I  mast  see 
Cooper." 

And  he  left  the  table  abruptly,  and  the  house.  Mrs.  Ep 
som,  her  daughter,  and  her  lovely  protegee,  thought  he  had  an 
appointment  with  the  manager,  and,  though  he  did  not  say  so, 
his  words  and  action  conveyed  the  meaning. 

"  Mr.  Spiffard  behaves  very  odd  this  morning,"  said  the 
mother,  with  somewhat  of  an  offended  air,  at  the  same  time  ad 
ministering  a  pinch  of  snuff. 

"  Somewhat  absent,  I  must  confess,  both  in  words  and 
looks,"  said  the  wife. 

"  But  cousin,"  said  Emma  Portland,  "  Mr.  Spiffard  seemed 
fully  alive  to  your  fine  appearance  and  performance  of  last 
evening." 

There  was  harmony  in  the  look,  the  voice,  the  words,  of  the 
beautiful  speaker.  There  was  harmony  within,  and  its  influ 
ence  was  felt  by  all  who  heard  or  saw  her.  Are  there  not 
beings  whose  presence  acts  upon  the  turbulent  spirits  of  the 
world  as  oil  upon  the  troubled  waters  ? 

Spiffard  had  made  up  his  mind  (while  sitting  at  the  break 
fast-table)  to  see  the  young  manager,  and  consult  him  in  regard 
to  the  conduct  he  ought  to  pursue  in  this  unexpected  affair  of 
the  letter  received  from  John  Smith.  He  knew  that  the  young 
tragedian  was  well  versed  in  the  etiquette  as  well  as  the  re 
ality  of  honour's  laws.  He  wished  to  have  the  approbation 
of  those  he  associated  with,  though  he  felt  no  inclination  to 
yield  either  to  John  Smith  or  to  the  customs  established  by 
duellists.  Our  associates  should,  in  their  habits,  be  such  as 
will  confirm  our  own  better  resolutions. 

The  effect  of  Allen's  letter  had  been  anticipated  by  the  con 
trivers  of  it ;  and,  with  the  view  to  sport,  (of  which  they  did 
not  foresee  the  consequences)  it  was  contrived  that  Cooper 
should  not  be  seen  by  Spiffard  until  after  dinner ;  when,  as 
usual,  his  board  would  be  crowned  by  the  sport-encouraging 
bottle,  and  surrounded  by  such  a  knot  as  would  seize  every 
occasion  that  might  offer  to  carry  on  the  joke  of  the  quarrel? 
between  substance  and  shadow. 

Spiffard  passed  the  morning  in  suspense.  At  length  he 
found  the  manager  at  table  over  his  wine,  and  attended  by 


The  hoax  progresses.  49 

his  well  prepared  friends,  all  looking  for  Spiffard's  arrival. 
He  was  welcomed,  as  he  always  had  been ;  for  though  he 
partook  not  of  the  wine,  he  did  of  the  wit,  and  always  brought 
his  share.  As  had  been  agreed,  the  conversation  was  turned 
upon  duelling. 

We  have  said  the  company  were  prepared,  but  there  was 
one  exception.  Cooke  had  unexpectedly  dropt  in  to  dinner, 
and  was  ignorant  of  the  plot. 

Spiffard  found  the  good  fellows  in  full  convivial  gaiety; 
each  with  his  glass,  and  each  with  his  cigar — Cooke  being  in 
the  last  also  an  exception. 

"  Spiffard,  what  do  you  drink  ?" 

"  Water." 

"Why  ask  him?" 

"  I  did  not  know  but  he  might  have  wished  small  beer." 

"  Or  switchel,"  said  Cooke,  "  as  my  man  Davenport  calls 
his  molasses  and  water.  Mr.  Spiffard  is  the  only  wise  man 
among  us,  however.  He  will  not  put  his  '  enemy  in  his 
mouth  to  steal  away  his  brains.'  " 

"  You,  sir,"  said  Hilson,  bowing  gravely,  and  looking  very 
seriously  respectful,  "  fear  no  enemy." 

"  And  you,  sir,"  said  the  veteran,  laughing,  "  know  "you 
have  no  brains." 

"  I  hold,"  said  Cooper,  "  that  the  man  who  rejects  such 
madeira  as  this,  has  no  brains  worth  stealing.  Fill !  and  pass 
the  decanter,  Allen !" 

"  The  man  who  rejects  every  liquid,  save  water,  will  be 
found  the  wise  man,"  persisted  Cooke,  as  he  deliberately  filled 
a  bumper  of  wine. 

"  Is  wisdom  to  be  found  at  the  bottom  of  the  well,  in  com 
pany  with  truth  ?"  demanded  Allen. 

"  Wisdom  and  truth  are  the  same,"  said  SpifTard. 

"  Truth  is  found  at  the  bottom  of  the  bottle,"  said  a  little 
hard  favoured  man  about  forty,  dressed  in  a  kind  of  half  mili 
tary  blue  coat,  the  button-holes  of  which  were  trimmed  with 
tarnished  gold  lace. 

This  gentleman  was  an  old  bachelor  and  an  oddity.  He 
had,  when  a  boy,  served  during  the  war  of  the  revolution, 
whenever  he  could  escape  from  his  guardians  ;  and,  towards 
the  close  of  the  war,  being  his  own  master,  with  some  pro 
perty,  he  obtained  a  commission,  and,  as  he  said,  would 
*'  never  sully  the  honour  of  a  soldier"  by  stooping  to  any  use 
ful  occupation.  He  therefore  lived  to  old  age  upon  the  credit 
of  what  he  had  done  in  youth,  merely  to  gratify  boyish  curio- 


50  The  hoax  progresses. 

sity,  and  in  obedience  to  over-boiling  spirits.  This  bank  of 
credit,  upon  which  he  drew  most  liberally,  was  a  store  unknown 
to  all  but  himself;  for  the  name  of  Phillpot  neither  appeared 
in  the  dispatches  of  the  commanding  generals  or  in  the  pages 
of  the  historians  of  the  revolution.  He  was  remarkable  in  the 
streets  for  military  carriage,  and  the  old  fashioned  half-regi 
mental  coat  above  mentioned,  (which,  whenever  renewed,  was 
of  the  same  cut),  but  his  old  cocked  hat,  with  a  black  and 
white  cockade,  and  his  long  Frederick-the-Great  queue,  was 
even  more  conspicuous  than  his  diminutive  martial  person  and 
coat.  He  was  no  less  remarkable  in  the  chamber  than  the 
field,  and  with  a  dry  quaintness  told  stones  of  his  campaigns, 
that  were  ever  new,  though  the  recital  of  the  same  events,  for 
the  incidents  were  such  as  the  imagination  of  the  moment  pre 
sented.  "  Truth  is  found  at  the  bottom  of  the  bottle !  When 
the  army  lay  at  Valley-Forge — " 

"  Right,  Colonel !"  cried  the  master  of  the  revel,  "  wine 
brightens  the  wit ;  and  wit  is  your  true  terrier  for  unborrowing 
truth  !  You  are  a  Diogenes  seeking  truth  by  the  light  of  the 
bottle." 

"  Not  altogether  by  that  light,"  said  the  Colonel ;  "  I  have 
sought  troth  by  the  light  of  history." 

"  History  is  a  tissue  of  falsehood,"  was  the  manager's  ex 
clamation. 

Spiffard  added,  "historians  have  propagated  immorality,, 
with  few  exceptions,  from  the  earliest  to  the  latest." 

"  They  are  great  liars,"  said  the  Colonel, — "  of  that  I  have 
no  doubt ;  but  they  have  fostered  the  noblest  qualities  of  our 
nature.  Homer  (for  I  rank  him  with  the  historians)  made  an. 
Alexander;  and  the  history  of  the  conquering  Macedonian  has 
formed  all  the  great  men  that  have  since  lived." 

"  Great  men  !  According  to  you,  Colonel,"  said  Spiffard, 
"  none  are  great  but  the  butchers  of  mankind  !  The  preachers 
of  peace,  and  teachers  of  divine  love,  the  explorer  of  science 
and  martyrs  to  truth, — are  of  no  account ;  they  are  not  great 
men !  Till  such  opinions  are  corrected  in  the  mass  of  mankind^ 
the  reign  of  peace  and  benevolence  cannot  come." 

"It  is  the  sword  that  prepares  the  path  for  the  savans. 
"What  had  we  known  of  Egypt  if  the  4  fire  king'  had  not  pre 
ceded  the  scientific  explorer  ?  So  Alexander  opened  the  path 
to  the  Grecian  philosophy.  Alexander  is  my  hero !" 

"  He  was  a  jolly  toper,"  said  Allen. 

"  That  he  was  !"  And  the  Colonel,  in  most  discordant  notes, 
sung,— 


The  hoax  progresses.  51 

"  Alexander  hated  thinking, 
Drank  about  the  council-board, 

He  subdued  the  world  by  drinking, 
More  than  by  his  conquering  sword." 

"  Subdued  the  world  !  but  not  himself!  Had  he  been  tem 
perate  he  had  not  mourned  over  a  slaughtered  friend,  and  might 
have  been  a  friend  to  the  human  race." 

"  He  was  a  conqueror  !   Show  me  his  equal !" 

"  I  can  name,  even  a  military  man,  much  his  superior,  (if 
you  must  have  a  soldier).  One  who  preserved  a  nation,  and 
established  an  empire,  composed  of  freemen  !  Washington  ! 
The  conqueror  of  himself!" 

"  I  suppose  I  must  succumb !  But  he  would  have  done 
more  if  he  had  drank  more  !  Cooper  is  right !  I  seek  truth  by 
the  light  of  the  bottle  and  peace  by  the  force  of  the  sword." 

"  Say  discord,  instead  of  truth,"  said  George  Frederick. 
u  We  drink  away  our  senses  and  then  talk  politics,  dispute 
about  words,  say  harsh  and  rude  things,  and  finally  abuse  one 
another.  I  believe  nine  quarrels  out  of  ten  originate  over  the 
bottle." 

"  It's  only  your  quarrelsome  fellows  by  nature  that  quarrel  ire 
their  cups.  You  never  quarrel,  Mr.  Cooke,  or  say  an  uncivil 
thing — not  you — neither  do  I.  If  the  disposition  to  quarrel,  or 
any  ill-will  towards  a  companion  is  in  the  bosom,  wine  brings* 
it  out.  Allen,''  continued  the  speaker,  (who  was  Hilson,) 
"  Allen,  you  know  all  these  matters  and  things. — Allen  is  a 
philosopher,  Mr.  Cooke,  and  his  opinion  is  oracular. — Alleny 
what  has  caused  the  greatest  number  of  quarrels  and  duels 
within  your  experience  ]" 

"  Politics,"  was  the  reply,  "  party  politics." 

"  So  I  thought.  Your  politician  is  a  fellow  with  the  heart 
burn.  Your  water-drinking  politician.  Your  lily-livered, 
cold-blooded,  office-seeking,  place-hunting,  mischief-making,, 
tale-bearing,  under-mining,  politician.  Colonel !  did  you 
ever  know  a  man  with  a  ruby-coloured-nose  and  a  carmine 
cheek  that  ever  fought  a  duel?" 

It  will  be  readily  imagined  that  this  question  was  intended  by 
the  way  to  bring  on  the  reply  and  discussion  that  followed. 

"  Yes,  many  a  one,  as  scarlet  and  purple  as  yourself.  Lin 
stock  and  Alcort  were  neither  of  them  chalk-faced.  There 
was  Johnson  too,  who  was  shot  by  Brown,  had  a  face  as  full  of 
claret  as  your  own,  though  it  showed  through  a  browner  cover 
ing  of  skin." 

**  Colonel,  you  know  the  particulars  of  that  affair,"  said 


52  The  hoax  progresses. 

Allen  inquiringly,  as  he  puffed  a  volume  of  smoke  towards  the 
man-of-war. 

"  Yes.  But  they  are  not  to  be  told.  It  was  a  bloody  busi 
ness." 

Our  hero  inquired  if  either  fell,  and  looks  of  intelligence 
passed  from  one  to  the  other  among  the  young  men,  who  were 
in  the  plot.  Spiffard 's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  Colonel,  who 
answered  with  a  tremendous  oath,  "  Both  ought  to  have  been 
killed  ten  times  over,  if  either  could  have  hit  the  broad  side  of 
a  church  at  ten  paces.  To  be  sure,  it  was  rather  late  in  the 
evening ;  but  there  was  snow  on  the  ground,  and  that  gave 
light  and  made  a  mark  surer.  I  remember  in  the  year  seven 
ty-nine ." 

"  Where  was  this  ?" 

"  It  was  when  we  were  hutted  near  Momstown — " 

"  No,  Colonel,  not  that  story  ;  but  the  duel  of  Brown  and 
Johnson." 

"  That  was  just  over  the  fence  to  the  north  of  Love-lane.'* 

"  Love-lane  'I" 

"  Called  so,"  said  Cooke,  "  because  no  love  is  ever  lost 
there.  Does  Hoboken  mean  love,  in  Dutch  1" 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Allen,  "  that  Brown  never  fired  a  pistol 
before  in  his  life,  and  let  me  tell  you  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  keep 
a  muzzle  in  line." 

"  No,  nor  would  he  then,"  said  the  gruff  man  of  war,  "  if  he 
had  not  been  told  that  his  standing  with  the  party  and  in  socie 
ty  depended  upon  his  fighting." 

"  So  the  yankees  commit  murder,  for  fear  of  losing  their 
reputation  as  good  members  of  society." 

"  Yes,"  said  Spiffard,  "  it  is  fear,  that  makes  men  brave 
death  in  many  eases.  The  fear  of  losing  the  good  opinion  of 
those  with  whom  one  associates,  makes  many  a  man  expose 
himself  to  his  adversary's  ball,  or  risk  the  shedding  his  brother's 
blood." 

"  No  man,"  said  Allen,  taking  the  cigar  from  bis  mouth  and 
breaking  off  the  ashes  which  had  accumulated  on  the  end  like 
the  snuff  of  a  burning  candle,  "  No  man,"  and  he  deliberately 
placed  the  brightened  cigar  on  the  table,  the  fire  end  a  little 
over  the  edge,  "  No  man,"  and  he  spoke  with  emphasis,  assu 
ming  a  most  oracular  air,  "  can  refuse  to  fight  when  challenged, 
if  he  has  provoked  the  challenge." 

Spiffard  looked  at  the  oracle  with  lack-lustre  eye,  the  upper 
lid  hanging  remarkably  low — his  chin  elongated  and  his  mouth 
a  little  opened.  He  was  taken  in  the  snare.  He  had  no 


TJie  hoax  progresses.  53 

greater  dread  of  death  than  is  common  to  humanity,  and  he 
thought  himself  principled  against  duelling ;  yet  he  began  to 
have  a  glimpse  in  imagination  of  a  duel  impending,  and  him 
self  one  of  the  parties.  John  Smith's  letter — the  great-coat 
— the  sarcastic  smile — were  dancing  in  mournful  measure,  in 
his  mind,  when  the  speaker  continued  :  "  If  a  gentleman 
makes  use  of  offensive  language  to  another  gentleman,  and  is 
called  upon  for  an  apology,  he  must  make  it,  or  accept  the 
offended  party'sK4challenge  if  he  thinks  fit  to  call  him  out/' 
Allen  resumed  his  cigar. 

Spiffard  look'd  ruminating.  He  was  chewing  the  cud,  with 
out  that  satisfaction  which  attends  it  in  some  of  his  fellow- 
water-drinkers. 

The  Colonel  responded  to  the  oracle's  exposition  of  the 
law  of  the  duello  with  "  certainly,"  and  an  immense  volume  of 
tobacco  smoke. 

"  No  doubt,"  said  another. 

The  conspirators  watched  the  countenance  of  Spiffard,  and 
saw  the  success  of  their  hoax. 

"  Johnson,"  said  Allen,  "  insulted  Brown  brutally,  and  de 
served  to  be  shot." 

The  Colonel,  with  his  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  speaking  after 
puffing  off  a  cloud  of  smoke,  observed,  "  I  believe  it  is  always 
the  case  that  the  offending  party  is  shot." 

" '  The  offending  party,'  "  repeated  Spiffard,  "  but,  Colonel, 
do  you  mean  the  offence  that  called  forth  the  demand  for  an 
apology,  or  the  offence  first  given  ?" 

"  Let  me  understand  your  question.     State  a  case." 

"  Why,  as  thus.  If  a  man  reproves  another  for  improper 
behaviour  to  a  female,  for  example,  and  the  person  reproved 
<Iemands  an  apology?" 

"  It  cannot  be  given,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  It  cannot  be  given,"  said  Allen. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Hilson. 

"  If,"  continued  our  hero,  "  on  refusal  of  apology  a  chal 
lenge  ensues  ?" 

il  He  must  fight,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilson,  "  he  must  fight." 

"  Certainly  he  must  fight,"  said  Allen. 

"  As  long  as  the  challenger  chooses  to  shoot  at  him,"  said 
Hilson. 

"I  knew  a  case  in  point,"  said  the  Colonel,  "but  the  parties 
fought  with  swords.  Two  of  the  French  officers  who  were 
with  us  at  Yorktown — " 

VOL.  n.  3 


54  The  hoax  progresses. 

"  But,  Colonel,"  queried  the  Vermonter,  "  according  to 
your  theory  I  should  suppose  that  the  person  giving  the  offence, 
would  in  this  case,  be  the  man  whose  behaviour  had  been  im 
proper  towards  the  female.  He  would  be  the  offender,  and  not 
the  person  who  reproved  him." 

"  The  reprover  being  right,  cannot  possibly  apologize,*'  said 
Allen.  "  It  is  a  pity  that  one  cannot  be  sure  where  the  ball 
•would  strike  ;  for  notwithstanding  the  Colonel's  theory,  who 
knows  which  may  fall  1" 

"  It's  a  difficult  question  for  powder  and  lead  to  decide  upon,'7 
said  Hilson.  "  I  think  it  likely  both  might  fall." 

"  Both  might  miss,"  said  Spiffard. 

"  Not  likely,"  said  Hilson,  [looking  seriously  at  Cooper. 
"  The  science  is  brought  to  great  perfection.  The  hair-trigger 
was  a  great  invention.  Steam  engines  and  spinning-jennies- 
are  nothing  to  it.  Formerly  if  a  man's  nerves  happened  to  be 
a  little  the  worse  for  wear  and  tear,  or  constitutionally  trepida- 
tionally  inclined,  he  was  sure  to  turn  the  muzzle  of  his  pistol  out 
of  line  by  the  exertion  of  the  pulling  trigger ;  but  now,  though 
he  shakes  like  an  aspen  leaf,  or  the  hand  of  an  old  tippler  when 
lifting  the  first  glass,  if  he  is  only  quick  upon  the  word,  and 
brings  his  muzzle  within  a  foot  of  the  horizontal — touch  I 
whiz  ! — the  lead  must  tell — if  both  parties  fire — both  may  fall." 

"  Spiffard!  give  us  a  song,"  said  Cooper. 

"  Yes.  But  Colonel,  you  said  that  the  two  gentlemen  you 
mentioned,  fired  repeatedly." 

"  They  did.  But  the  seconds  were  determined  to  bring  the 
affair  to  a  happy  conclusion,  and  finding  that  the  light  failed 
fast,  they  brought  their  principals  up  to  three  paces." 

Spiffard  looked  upon  the  carpet,  and  seemed  to  measure  the 
distance,  as  he  said,  "  Three  paces  !" 

The  Colonel  proceeded,  "  It  is  all  nonsense  and  stuff  not  to 
settle  these  things  when  you  have  begun,  you  know ;  so  at  the 
three  paces,  the  word  was  given  to  fire." 

"  Well]" 

"Johnson  missed  his  antagonist,  and  Brown's  fire  was  re- 
served  by  the  circumstance  of  his  second  having  neglected  to 
cock  his  pistol," 

"  Well  1» 

"  So,  the  second  did  his  duty  by  cocking  the  pistol,  and  all 
Brown  had  to  do  was  coolly  to  put  the  ball  through  Johnson's 
body." 

"  Horrible!"  ejaculated  Spiffard,  «  and  the  seconds  stood  by 
—and—  " 


The  hoax  progresses.  55 

"  My  good  fellow  what  could  they  do  ?  Johnson  was  ask 
ed  to  apologize." 

<*  Well,— and  he,—]" 

"  Said,  fire  away  ;  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  Mr.  Cooke, 
pass  that  bottle." 

il  What !  pass  it  without  filling  !"  demanded  the  host. 

44 1  drink  no  more  wine  to-day,"  and  the  veteran  emphatical 
ly  turned  his  glass  bottom  upwards. 

"  Mr.  Cooke,  here  is  brandy,"  said  Hilson,  very  gravely 
offering  it.  Cooke  looked  up  from  under  the  heavy  folds  of 
his  eye  lids,  and  then  laughing  good  naturedly  said,  "  Tom, 
you  are  a  big  blackguard." 

"  Whatl"  said  Cooper,  "has  Hilson  offered  you  the  empty 
brandy  bottle !  George,  more  brandy  !" 

"  Ah,  you  was  a  pretty  set  of  fellows  !" 

"  But  Linstock  and  Alcort  the  duellists  you  first  mentioned 
are  both  alive,  I  know,"  remarked  SpirTard. 

*4  Linstock  hit  general  Alcort  three  times  without  bringing 
him  down,  and  these  rude  thumps, — (although  the  general  did 
not  mind  a  pistol  ball  more  than  the  proboscis  of  a  musquito,) 
prevented  his  steady  aim — he  couldn't  touch  his  mark.  A  man 
must  be  iron,  you  know,  to  be  perfectly  unmoved  when  anoth 
er  is  breaking  his  shins  with  leaden  bullets." 

SpifFard  told  Cooper  that  he  wanted  to  speak  with  him  in 
private.  They  accordingly  withdrew. 

"  There  he  goes  now  to  show  Cooper  Captain  Smith's  letter 
— I  think  it  is  Captain  Smith,  is  it  not  Allen  ?" 

"  Yes,  captain  of  a  merchantman,  sailing  out  of  Philadel 
phia." 

"  Did  you  mark  how  miserable  SpifT  looked  while  the  Colo 
nel  kindly  described,  and  mercifully  dwelt  upon  the  particulars 
of  the  bloody  encounter  in  Love-lane  ?  Colonel,  did  you 
note  how  his  jaw  fell  when  you  shot  Johnson  1" 

"  I  hope,"  said  Simpson,  who  had  taken  little  part  in  the 
plot,  and  had  been  a  silent  observer,  "  You  will  not  carry  the 
joke  too  far." 

"  What  1  Are  you  afraid  that  Captain  Smith  will  shoot  Spiff!" 

"  He  has  more  to  fear  from  his  good  natured  friends  than 
from  Captain  Smith.  Torture  is  worse  than  death." 

"  Torture  and  death  !  What  say  you,  Allen  ?  As  you  made 
John  Smith,  I  suppose  you  can  prevent  his  committing  murder 
or  inflicting  torture  1" 

"  He  will  obey  his  maker  doubtless,"  said  Allen,  *<  as  ail 
men  should." 

"  Not  if  he  is  like  most  men,"  said  Cooke.   "  But  what  is  all 


56  The  hoax  progresses. 

this  ?  "What  does  it  all  mean  ?  Who  is  captain  John  Smith  ? 
Tom,  who  is  he?" 

"  He  is  a  man  of  straw,  or  buckram.  A  buckram-man, 
sir  John  ;  don't  you  remember  little  Spiff  bullying  two  men  in 
the  boxes'?"  said  Hilson. 

"  Yes.     Two  blackguards." 

"  One  of  them  proves  to  be  captain  John  Smith,  master  of 
the  good  ship — what's  her  name,  Allen?" 

"  '  Anna  Matilda,'  trading  between  Philadelphia  and  Liver 
pool  ;  but  the  captain  is  a  man  of  spirit  and  honour. — '  Is'nt  he, 
Moses  V  " 

"  '  I'll  shwear  to  it,'  "  responded  Hilson. 

"  And  he  requires  our  friend  to  make  an  apology.  '  Does'nt 
he,  Moses!'" 

"  No  doubt  of  it." 

"  He  has  written  to  Spiff,  who  is  now  consulting  Cooper  on 
the  subject." 

"  You  seem  to  know  all  this  by  intuition.  I  am  sure  Mr. 
Spiffard  said  nothing  on  the  subject,"  remarked  Cooke. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Cooke,"  said  Hilson,  "  don't  you  peach.  Al 
len  wrote  the  letter — he  is  to  conduct  the  business.  And  if  it 
should  come  to  a  duel,  he  will  be  Spiff's  second." 

"  Ah,  you  are  a  precious  set  of  boys !" 

Just  then  Cooper  returned,  took  his  seat,  and  all  were  atten 
tion.  He  said,  "  I  have  advised  him  to  let  Allen  manage  the 
business  ;  but  I  consented  to  accompany  him  to  the  Albany 
Coffee-house,  and  witness  his  interview  with  John  Smith. 
After  what  has  passed,  I  told  him,  and  he  thinks,  he  ought 
rather  to  receive  than  make  apology.  So  we  are  to  go  to-mor 
row  at  eleven  o'clock,  to  meet  captain  John  Smith.  He  ask 
ed  me  if  I  knew  any  one  of  that  name  1  I  told  him  I  remem 
bered  a  dashing  fellow  in  Philadelphia  of  the  name  of  Smith, 
a  notorious  duellist,  and  little  Spiff  has  gone  home  pretty  con 
siderably  cogitative." 

"  You  did  not  hesitate  telling  him  you  knew  such  a  man  ?" 
said  Cooke. 

"  Smith  ?  I  do  know  such  a  fellow.  John  Smith  or  Tom 
Smith.  Why  I  have  known  a  hundred  of  them.  I'll  bet  a 
hundred  I  find  a  John  Smith  in  every  street  in  town  that  has  a 
hundred  houses." 

"  So,"  said  Cooke,  "  This  is  the  way  you  treat  your  friends  ? 
Deliver  me  from  such  friendship." 

"  What !   you  are  not  going  ?" 

"  Home,  to  read." 


The  hoax  progresses.  57 

"  Say  nothing  to  Spiff." 

"  I  shall  not  see  him  until  your  hoax  is  over.  You  will  go 
to  the  Albany  Coffee-house,  and  as  you  will  find  no  John 
Smith,  there  is  an  end." 

"  I  suppose  so.     JYbtw  verrons." 

"  I  shall  have  an  eye  upon  ye,  boys,"  said  the  veteran  as  he 
left  them. 

The  young  men  lost  sight  of  the  duel  for  the  present,  and  in 
deed  only  looked  forward  to  carrying^Spiffard  on  a  fool's  errand 
to  the  Albany  Coffee-bouse,  and  perhaps  having  a  laugh  at  his 
credulity  and  serious  deportment.  He  went  home,  musing, 
and  was  very  bad  company  the  remainder  of  the  evening. 


58 


CHAPTER  IV. 

JWore  hoaxing.     JWr.  Smith  and  Captain  Smith. 

"  It  is  almost  incredible  how  opinions  change  by  the  decline  or  decay  of 
spirits. — Swift. 

"  Win  me  and  wear  me — let  him  answer  me." 

"  Give-a-dis  letter  to  Sir  Hugh  :  by  gar  it  is  a 
Shalienge. — I  will  cut  his  troat  in  de  Park." 

"  I  had  as  lief  not  be,  as  live  to  be, 

In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. — Shakspeare 

Spiffard  had  determined  to  make  his  adversary  hear  reason ; 
and  doubted  not  the  power  of  reason  if  enforced  with  due  elo 
quence  and  a  spirit  of  benevolence.  He  was  not  a  man  to 
shed  the  blood  of  his  fellow  creature;  neither  would  he  consent 
that  another  should  shed  his  blood.  He  felt  no  enmity  to  the 
person  he  expected  to  meet ;  and  did  not  doubt,  upon  a  mild 
statement  of  the  circumstances  attending  the  offence,  they 
should  part  friends,  if  he  was  a  reasonable  creature  ;  if  not — 
he  saw  no  necessity  for  further  proceedings.  He  had  often 
deliberated  on  and  examined  all  the  arguments  for  and  against 
duelling — he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  not  the  most  extreme 
case,  which  the  casuist  can  conceive,  would  justify  the  prac 
tice.  In  short,  he  detested  duelling  ;  but  he  would  not  sub 
mit  to  insult.  He  would  repel  aggression  by  force  even  to  the 
death,  in  the  last  resort,  but  thought  that  with  a  reasonable 
creature,  reason  must  triumph.  In  this  case  it  had  not  esca 
ped  him,  that  his  antagonist,  if  disguised,  must  attribute  the 
offensive  words  to  that  disguise  ;  as  the  expressions  which 
offended  Spiffard,  might  be  supposed  likewise,  to  have  been  an 
assumed  language  suited  to  the  disguise. 

These  reasonings  were  communicated  by  Spiffard  to  his 
friend,  who  was  of  course  to  use  them  in  his  behalf,  and  who 
received  them  with  great  apparent  gravity. 

Cooperand  Spiffard  met  at  the  hour  appointed,  giving  sufficient 
time  to  walk  to  the  Albany  Coffee-house,  by  eleven  of  the  clock. 
The  tragedian  did  not  fail  to  enjoy  the  serious  and  determined 
countenance  of  his  pale-faced  companion ;  who  was  thinking 


More  hoaxing.  59 

tiow  he  might  avoid  the  hateful  consequences  which  might 
spring  from  a  meeting  with  the  letter  writer,  and  preserve  the 
good  opinion  of  his  associates  and  himself. 

"  Cooper,  if  the  fellow  should  say  that  he  is  sorry  he  made 
use  of  improper  language  in  respect  to  Mrs.  Spiffard,  I  may 
say  that  I  am  sorry  thatl  was  called  upon  to  speak  harshly  to 
'him?" 

This  was  said  by  way  of  query,  as  they  passed  toward 
'G  reenwich-street. 

"Your  if,  is  a  notable  peace-maker,  you  know  Spiff;  but  I 
do  not  see  how  you  can  be  sorry  for  doing  right,  because  Mr. 
John  Smith  is  sorry  for  having  done  wrong.  Besides,  he  has 
not  invited  you  to  the  Albany  Coffee-house  to  receive,  but  to 
make  an  apology.  Would  you  know  the  fellow  again?" 
Spiffard  hesitated.  The  manager  asked,  "  If  you  were  to  see 
him,  he  not  speaking  to  you,  or  noticing  you,  would  you  know 
him?" 

"  I  think  I  should  know  one  of  them — there  were  two,  you 
4inow — both  in  rough  great-coats.  I  think  I  might  know  the 
one  I  spoke  to." 

"  If  they  were  disguised  for  a  frolic,  they  probably  wore 
wigs." 

"  My  man  had  a  shaggy  bush  of  shock  hair,  as  far  as  I  could 
see  below  his  hat." 

"  A  wig  no  doubt.  You  would  not  know  him  again,  I  see." 
The  manager  was  determined  that  it  should  be  so. 

•' '  The  Albany  Coffee-house.'  This  is  our  place,"  said 
Cooper,  as  he  read  the  sign.  Zeb  stretched  himself  to  the 
height  of  full  five  feet  five,  and  took  a  desperate  stride  towards 
the  door. 

"  Stop,"  said  his  patron,  and  he  took  his  arm.  "  Don't 
look  as  if  you  would  eat  the  man.  An  easy,  careless  air.  Take 
my  arm.  Let  me  be  spokesman." 

"  Zeb  obeyed.  They  entered  with  an  air  of  nonchalance ; 
but  careless  as  our  hero  might  be,  he  rolled  his  lobster  eyes 
around  the  public  room,  in  search  of  the  redoubted  John  Smith. 
The  bar-keeper  was  at  his  post,  and  but  one  other  human 
being  was  to  be  seen.  A  little  consumptive-looking,  elderly 
man,  was  reading  the  news  at  a  table,  and  did  not  notice  their 
entrance,  or  lift  his  eyes  from  the  paper. 

"Is  that  the  man  ?"  whispered  the  waggish  manager. 
"I — I  think  not.    He  was  much  stouter  and  younger,  and  his 
face  full  of  colour." 

"There  is  no  knowing.     A  large  overcoat,  and  a  bushy 


60  J\lore  hoaxing. 


wig  of  shock  hair;  and  then,  probably,  his  face  flushed  with 
exercise  and  liquor." 

"  It  may  be — it  is  possible — and  yet — " 

"  I'll  soon' know ;"  and  stepping  up  to  the  little  old  gentleman, 
he  said,  "  Pray,  sir,  is  your  name  Smith  ?"  Here  the  wag 
thought  that  a  simple  negative  would  have  settled  the  point ; 
but  to  his  great  gratification,  the  little  old  gentleman,  squeaked 
out,  "  Yes,  sir,  my  name  is  Smith." 

'The  manager  turned  round  to  watch  the  emotion  depicted 
on  his  protegee's  face,  and  could  scarce  refrain  from  laughter, 
as  he  saw  the  eager  look  Spiffard  fixed  on  Mr.  Smith  ;  who, 
seeing  this  unaccountable  "  bye  play,"  exclaimed  in  a  sharper 
tone,  "  And  pray,  sir,  what  have  you  to  do  with  my  name?" 

"  That  we  shall  see,  sir,  in  due  time."  He  took  off  his  haf, 
and  bowed  to  Mr.  Smith  ;  then  turning  again  to  his  companion, 
who  was  gazing  with  earnestness,  at  the  little  old  gentlenman, 
(whose  exertion  had  produced  a  fit  of  coughing,  that  brought 
the  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  a  flush  of  red  over  his  face,)  Cooper 
said,  "  Here  he  is.  See  how  red  he  looks.  Would  you  have 
recognized  him?" 

"No." 

*' Nor  his  voice  ?" 

"  His  voice  was  as  gruff  as  the  low  notes  of  a  bassoon." 

"  He  was  hoarse  ;  you  see  he  has  a  cold.  See  what  a  colour 
he  has  now." 

The  little  man  having,  in  some  measure,  subdued  his  cough, 
was  wiping  the  tears  from  his  face,  when  he  again  squeaked 
out  angrily,  "  What  do  you  mean  by  asking  me  my  name  1" 

"  No  offence,  sir.  You  are  not  ashamed  of  your  name.  You 
are  a  man  of  honour,  sir  ;  and  we  have  come  to  meet  you,  and 
give  assurance  that  you  shall  have  any  satisfaction  a  man  of 
honour  may,  by  the  laws  of  honour,  justly  demand." 

"  Tom,  don't  be  so  precipitate." 

"  If  you  think  you  can  manage  the  affair  better  1" 

"  No,  no,  no — but — " 

"  Meet  me!    Satisfaction  !    Waiter  !    Bar-keeper  !" 

"  Coming,  sir,"  and  the  bar-keeper  went  out  of  sight,  and 
listened. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  insult  me  ?" 

"  Far  from  it,  sir."  While  the  little  man  underwent  another 
fit  of  coughing,  the  tragedian  took  out  the  letter  of  "  John 
Smith,"  and  with  great  gravity  demanded,  as  he  displayed  the 
epistle,  "Is  that  your  signature,  sir?"  The  astonished  old 


Mr.  Smith,  and  Captain  Smith.  61 

gentleman  sought  for  his  spectacles,  and  the  wag  proceeded, 
*'  Is  your  name  John  Smith  ?" 

"  No !  Robert !  My  name  is  Robert  Cunningham  Smith  ! 
Robert!" 

"Then  we  have  nothing  further  to  say,  Mr.  Cunningham, 
but  that  an  appointment  made  by  a  Mr.  Smith,  brought  us  here ; 
and  your  name  being  Smith,  has  led  to  this  intrusion.  We  beg 
your  pardon,  sir.  Bar-keeper  !  Captain  Smith  is  waiting  for 
us  in  a  private  room."  He  whispered  to  Spiffard. 

"  Never  was  so  treated  in  my  life !"     And  Mr.  Smith  took 
the  newspaper  again. 

"Waiter!  bar-keeper!"  shouted  the  tragedian. 
"  Coming,  sir."  and  he  came  forward  from  his  hiding-place. 
"  Is  there  any  gentleman  in  the  house  who  has  engaged  a  pri 
vate  apartment  ?" 

44  The  boarders  are  all  gone  out,  sir." 
"  Is  there  any  one  of  the  name  of  Smith?" 
"  John  Smith  V  said  Spiffard,  by  way  of  making  the  matter 
sure  this  time. 

"  No,  sir ;  there  is  no  Mr.  Smith  boards  here." 
"  Is  there  no  stranger  in  the  house  ?" 
"  No,  sir;  only  that  old  gentleman." 
"  Do  you  know  any  one  of  the  name  of  Smith — " 
"John  Smith]"  added  the  principal. 

"  No,  sir — yes — there  is  a  Captain  Smith  who  sometimes 
comes  here." 

"Is  his  name  John]"  said  Zeb. 
"  I  really — I  don't — I  believe  so." 

'*  That's  the  man,  depend  upon  it,"  said  Cooper.  "Captain 
John  Smith  !" 

"  But,  Tom,  he  is  not  here." 

"  Something  has  prevented.  We  shall  see.  If  he  does  not 
apologize,  you  must  post.  Have  you  any  mint-julep,  waiter? 
You  must  post." 

"  I  will  post  home.  I  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
Captain  Smith." 

The  friends  departed,  and  Mr.  Robert  Smith  took  off  his 
spectacles  to  inquire  who  they  were.  "  I  believe,  sir,  they  are 
play-actors." 

"  The  scoundrels  !  Ask  me  my  name  !  The  strolling  va 
gabonds  !" 

The  remainder  of  this  day  passed  without  interruption  to  the 
peace  of  our  hero.  He  returned  home  light  of  heart.  A  weight 

3* 


62  More  hoaxing. 

had  been  removed,  and  he  was  pleased  with  every  body  and 
every  thing. 

The  manager,  satisfied  with  the  success  of  the  joke,  looked 
no  further  than  to  tell  the  story  at  the  next  meeting  of  his  merry 
comrades,  and  then  to  let  all  be  explained  to  SpifTard,  and  have 
a  hearty  and  friendly  laugh.  But  fate  was  adverse,  and  fate 
will  have  her  way,  let  us  say  what  we  will  to  the  contrary.  The 
playful,  and  not  unfriendly  intentions  of  the  young  manager, 

were ;  but  we  will  not  anticipate.  It  was  the  ebb  tide 

with  our  hero's  affairs,  and  he  had  to  flounder  among  sands 
and  shallows,  and  thump  upon  banks  and  rocks,  as  the  great 
moralist  says  all  men  must  who  miss  the  flood.  Fortunately, 
the  tide  of  flood  was  making  for  some  of  our  friends,  and  the 
gales  of  heaven  were  in  readiness  to  swell  their  sails,  and  bear 
them  quietly  over  a  sea  of  happiness, 

So  it  is.  What  moment  is  there  that  is  not  marked  by  joy 
and  sorrow,  hope  and  despair,  life  and  death  ?  But  life  is  tri 
umphant,  and  will  be  triumphant.  The  light  will  grow  more 
and  more  unto  the  perfect  day.  The  will  of  the  Author  of  all 
good  must  prevail. 


63 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Winter.    Jin  English  heroine. 


"  Ah,  what  a  sign  it  is  of  evil  life, 
When  death's  approach  is  seen  so  terrible." 

'''Forbear  to  judge,  for  we  are  sinners  all." — Shakspnare. 

'"Irrthum,  lass  loa  der  Augen  Band! 
Und  merkt  euch,  wie  der  Teufel  spasse." — Goethe. 

"Nature,  with  a  beauteous  wall,  doth  oft  enclose  pollution." 


thou  hast  a  mind 


That  suits  with  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character." 
"  For  'tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich." 
"  Good  alone,  is  good,  without  a  name." 
"  Too  fond  of  the  right,  to  pursue  the  expedient." 

"For  since  dishonour  traffics  with  man's  nature, 
He  is  but  outside." 

"  He  that  loves  to  be  flattered,  is  worthy  of  the  flatterer." 

"That  there  should  be  small  love  'mongst  these  sweet  knaves, 
And  all  this  courtesy."  — 


IT  is  a  saying  as  true  as  homely,  that  "  time  and  tide  wait 
for  no  man." 

The  first  month  of  the  year  1812  had  commenced,  and  the 
tide  of  events  connected  with  our  hero,  Zebediah  Spiffarc, 
swept  on,  ebbing  to  the  ocean  of  eternity. 

The  season  of  merry  Christmas  had  arrived  and  was  gone. 
It  hid  passed  as  usual.  Some  of  the  decendants  of  English 
men,  feasted  on  roast  beef  and  plumb-pudding,  on  the  day  ;  but 
most  substituted  roast  turkeys  and  mince-pies.  Others,  again, 
frowned  on  the  remains  of  popery,  abhorred  the  word  "  mass," 
and  strictly  prohibited  the  festival.  But  the  seventh  day  after, 
festivity  more  unanimously  prevailed.  On  the  first  day  of  the 


64  Winter. — Jin  English  heroine. 

new-year,  all  who  could,  joined  in  jollity.  It  was  then,  as  now? 
the  universal  holiday,  the  day  for  making  visits  and  presents. 
"  Santiclaus"  bestowed  his  favours  on  good  children,  and 
ladies  their  smiles  on  favoured  admirers.  The  new-year's 
cookey,  and  the  cherry-brandy,  (especially  the  latter,)  were 
more  in  demand  than  now.  It  was  the  time  for  visiting,  shak 
ing  hands,  renewing  old  acquaintances,  strengthening  friend 
ships,  and,  in  many  instances,  it  was  the  day  of  cordial  forgive 
ness,  for  real  or  supposed  slights  and  injuries.  This  was, 
indeed,  making  it  a  holiday.  Public  functionaries  and  clergy 
men,  then,  as  now,  were  the  only  males  who  remained  at  home : 
all  the  rest,  old  and  young,  hurried  from  house  to  house,  to  pay 
their  respects  to  the  females  of  every  family,  connected  by  ties 
of  any  kind,  and  to  such  office-holders,  civil  and  ecclesiastical, 
as  political  or  religious  opinion  united  with  them.  The  whole 
population  appeared  to  be  in  their  gala  suits,  and  every  face 
dressed  in  smiles.  Every  matron  was  prepared  to  sit  from 
twelve  to  three  o'clock,  surrounded  by  her  daughters,  to  receive 
and  return  joyous  greetings.  The  genial  warmth  produced  by 
exercise — by  pleasure  received  from  the  succession  of  happy 
domestic  circles  visited — by  alternate  exposure  to  the  cold 
without,  and  the  blazing,  or  furnace-like  fires  within — by  the 
wines,  cordials,  and  whiskey-punch,  although  only  touched  to 
the  lips  at  each  visit — not  to  mention  the  influence  of  sunny 
smiles  and  sparkling  eyes — all  these  combined,  produced  an 
effect  on  this  day,  which  makes  it  to  many — to  very  many — the 
happiest  day  of  the  year. 

But  all  this  hilarity  is  only  known  to  those  who  are  pros 
perous  :  to  the  rich — or  at  least  to  the  holders  of  property  who 
are  rich  in  anticipation. 

There  are  many,  however,  even  although  in  comfortable  cir 
cumstances,  who  appear  to  be  excluded  from  participation  in 
this  yearlyjoyous  carnival.  No  visiters  crossed  the  threshold 
of  Mrs.  Epsom.  Spiffard  felt  little  disposed  to  visit  those  from 
whose  society  his  wife  appeared  shut  out  by  an  impassable 
bar.  Emma  Portland  went  to  church,  and  returned  happy  to 
her  household  employments,  anticipating  a  visit  to  the  sick  or 
the  poor,  who  looked  as  anxiously  for  her  arrival,  as  any  of 
those  we  have  described,  for  the  appearance  of  relative  or 
admirer.  The  other  ladies  of  the  family  were  engaged  in  the 
usual  occupations  of  the  theatre  ;  for  the  first  of  January  is  a 
day  of  harvest  to  managers,  and  of  labour  to  actors. 

The  crowded  streets,  the  hospitable  hearths,  the  smoking 
boards,  the  joyous  gratulations,  the  overflowing  theatres,  the 


Winter. — Jin  English  heroine.  65 

shouts  of  applause  at  the  holiday  play  and  pantomime,  are  all 
apparent  on  the  first  of  January.  They  are  the  outward  and 
visible  signs  of  a  great,  populous,  and  prosperous  city ;  but 
who  can  tell  the  wretchedness  that  dwells  within  ?  even  in  the 
mansions  of  the  rich,  who  can  tell  ?  But  in  the  abodes  of  po 
verty,  at  this  season  of  chill  and  freezing,  who  can  tell  ?  When 
the  ice  and  snow  cuts  off  the  improvident  labourer's  resources, 
and  he  f\ies  to  intemperance,  as  a  refuge  from  cold.  When  the 
inmates  of  crowded  garrets  and  cellers,  unfurnished,  filthy,  com 
fortless,  hear  the  senseless  laugh  of  intoxication,  echoed  by  the 
groans  of  suffering  sickness.  In  those  abodes  where  the  noise 
of  strife  and  blasphemy  is  contrasted  with  the  silence  of  des 
pair  ;  where  those  distinctions  which  exist  in  the  light  of  the 
sun,  and  under  the  influence  of  society,  are  lost,  and  the  black 

thief  is  one  with  the  white  prostitute  ;  where but  enough  ! 

enough !  All  this  exists  at  one  and  the  same  time — and  all 
belongs  to  the  first  of  January. 

But  let  us  look  on  scenes,  if  not  of  happiness,  at  least  not 
presenting  the  dark  shades  of  unmingled  wretchedness.  Let 
us  pray  that  the  poor  may  be  taught,  that,  if  temperate  and  pro 
vident,  they  cannot  remain  poor  in  America. 

We  will  turn  our  attention  to  those  connected  with  our  story  r 
who,  though  not  all  basking  in  the  sun-shine  which  gilds  a 
happy-new-year,  were  not  yet  plunged  in  hopeless  darkness  ; 
and  first  to  the  domestic  affairs  of  General  Williams. 

This  man  of  courtesy,  though  all  smiles  when  addressing  his 
faulty  and  unfortunate  wife  before  company,  was,  in  private, 
very  generally  as  morose  as  the  intelligent  reader  may  suppose  ; 
and  only  controlled  by  the  fear  of  provoking  an  exposition 
which  occasionally  appeared  inevitable,  as  on  the  occurrence 
of  the  display  at  Doctor  Cadwallader's.  There  were  few  smiles 
in  the  private  recesses  of  the  general's  establishment.  The 
home — the  domestic  fire-side — there,  where  the  good  are  most 
happy,  there  dwelled  discontent,  regret,  and  fear  of  exposure. 
"  Poor  and  content  is  rich  ;"  but  sordid  riches,  though  they 
give  power,  cannot  purchase  content.  "  There  is  more  gold 
for  you  ;  do  you  damn  others,  and  let  this  damn  you,"  says  the 
misanthrope  ;  but  it  is  only  power  misused  that  brings  condem 
nation.  The  gold  Williams  had  purchased  by  an  act  of  dupli 
city  and  meanness,  could  not  even  buy  the  respect  of  the 
world,  though  backed  by  ostentatious  display,  and  never-tiring 
obsequiousness.  There  are  a  skin  and  surface  which  belong 
to  moral  as  well  as  physical  health,  that  cannot  be  counter 
feited. 


€6  Winter. — Jin  English  heroins. 

The  unhappy  Mrs.  Williams,  on  the  partial  recovery  of  rea 
son,  had  a  contused  recollection  of  the  occurrences  of  the  pre 
ceding  evening.  The  images  of  her  father,  mother,  and  sisters, 
were  ever  present  to  her  imagination.  She  thought  she  hod 
seen  Spiffard,  the  husband  of  her  sister.  She  questioned  her 
husband  wildly.  He  evaded  and  denied  the  knowledge  he  had 
obtained.  What  is  called  a  brain  fever,  seized  on  the  con 
science-struck  victim  of  seduction  and  duplicity.  In  her  ravings, 
she  called  upon  her  parents  for  forgiveness  ;  the  name  of  Spif 
fard  was  uttered,  and  touching  appeals  were  made  to  her  sis 
ter,  conjuring  her,  by  former  love,  to  come  to  her  !  to  save  her  ! 

Doctor  Cadwallader  obeyed  the  call  for  his  professional  at 
tendance,  and  his  skill  produced  a  temporary  suspension  of  the 
disease,  accompanied  by  extreme  exhaustion.  In  a  lucid  inter 
val,  she  questioned  him  respecting  the  vision,  for  such  it 
seemed  to  her,  in  which  she  had  seen  Spiffard.  The  doctor 
told  her  the  truth,  and  Williams  was  obliged  to  confess  that 
he  had  seen,  and  been  repulsed,  by  the  son  of  her  sister ; 
that  hehadsubsequently  heard  ofher  death,  and  that  of  the  elder 
Spiffard  ;  but  tenderness  to  her  had  caused  his  concealment  of 
these  circumstances.  The  poor,  deceived  woman,  felt  herself 
an  outcast,  She  sunk  into  a  state  of  hopelessness,  and  the 
general  was  informed  by  the  physician,  that,  in  a  few  weeks, 
perhaps  days,  her  miseries  would  cease  in  death,  unless  some 
change  took  place,  of  which  he  saw  no  prospect. 

It  was  not  long  before  certain  occurrences,  nearly  affecting 
the  unhappy  lady,  and  very  unexpected,  alleviated  her  suffer 
ings,  and  suspended  her  dissolution,  although  the  excitement 
they  produced,  seemed  to  threaten  its  acceleration. 

Spiffard  received  a  letter  from  Eliza  Atherton,  the  youngest 
sister  of  his  unfortunate  mother.  It  had  the  evil-foreboding- 
black  seal,  and  announced  the  death  of  his  grandfather.  The 
amiable  and  high-minded  writer,  communicated  this  intelli 
gence  with  that  dignified  simplicity  which  accompanied  all  her 
words  and  actions,  and  then  proceeded  to  inform  her  nephew 
that  owing  to  her  father's  retired  and  economical  mode  of  living, 
a  large  portion  of  the  annuity  which  her  generous  young  rela 
tive  had  bestowed  upon  them,  had  been  saved,  and  constantly 
accumulating.  That  the  annuity  itself,  now  that  she  was 
alone,  would  much  more  than  supply  her  wants.  That  she 
had  seen  his  name,  as  an  actor,  in  those  newspapers  from 
America,  which,  from  many  circumstances,  were  so  interesting 
to  her  :  and  that  she  could  not  but  feel  that  she  might  be  en 
joying  superfluous  luxuries  from  his  bounty,  while  he,  perhaps, 


Winter. — Jin  English  heroine.  67 

was  labouring  from  necessity,  in  a  vocation,  unsuited,  or  disa 
greeable  to  him ;  perhaps  bearing  up  against  a  torrent  of  mis 
fortunes  ;  perhaps  suffering  from  privations  that  would  be 
prevented  by  the  possession  of  a  part  of  that  abundance,  as  it 
now  proved,  which  he  had  lavished  on  her.  That  she  had 
formed  the  resolution  to  visit  America,  for  two  reasons.  One 
was  the  determination  to  restore  to  him  such  part  of  his  gift  as 
justice  required,  and  she  could  prevail  upon  him  to  accept. 
That  she  would  not  make  this  offer  by  letter,  fearing  that  deli 
cacy,  (perhaps  false  delicacy,)  might  cause  a  refusal.  That 
her  second  motive  for  crossing  the  sea,  was  to  be  near  her 
sister,  now,  her  only  sister.  She  knew  her  sister  Sophia  to  be 
in  New-York,  and  had  reason  to  believe  that  her  husband  was 
not  a  fit  guardian  for  one  who  had  been  so  unfortunate  in  her 
first  entering  upon  the  stage  of  life  ;  and,  now  that  she  was  her 
•own  mistress,  and  without  near  relations  in  England,  she 
thought  it  her  duty  to  seek  the  sufferer,  for  such  she  believed 
her  to  be — (once  the  dear  companion  of  childhood) — and  by 
every  means  in  her  power,  guard  her  from  the  dangers 
which  beset  the  disappointed  and  unhappy.  With  these  views, 
she  had  converted  all  the  property  left  at  her  disposal,  into 
money,  and  should  embark  in  the  Sally,  Captain  Appleton, 
hoping  to  reach  New- York  nearly  as  soon  as  her  letter,  which 
was  dated  from  Liverpool. 

This  hope  was  fully  realized.  A  very  few  days  after  the 
arrival  of  this  precursor,  our  hero  received  a  note,  (brought  from 
the  outer  harbour  by  the  pilot  who  had  boarded  the  good  ship 
Sally,)  and  written  by  his  aunt.  The  necessary  arrangements 
were  made  for  accommodating  the  stranger  in  the  family  of 
which  Spiffard  was  the  head,  although  Mrs.  Epsom  still  called 
the  house  hers.  He  did  not  choose  that  Miss  Atherton  should 
go  immediately  to  Williams's.  This  done,  he  hastened  to  the 
bay,  and  embarked  in  one  of  the  many  boats  of  all  descriptions, 
that  eliven  the  beautiful  harbour  of  New-York,  and  was  soon 
standing  on  the  deck  of  the  ship. 

As  Eliza  Atherton  is  to  appear  on  the  stage  where  all  the 
persons  of  our  drama  are  moving,  we  think  that  our  readers 
should  have  a  more  distinct  idea  of  her  person,  than  may  have 
been  conveyed  by  the  preceding  pages.  Her  character,  (the 
form  and  features  of  her  mind,)  has  been  made  apparent  already. 
The  three  daughters  of  Mr.  Atherton,  Louisa,  the  mother  of 
Zebediah  Spiffard;  Sophia,  the  victim  of  aristocratic  seduction  ; 
and  Eliza,  the  pure,  pious,  undeviating  supporter  of  her  parents 
in  every  trial  to  the  hour  of  death,  were  all,  from  the  hand  of 


68  Winter. — An  English  heroine. 

nature,  models  of  beauty.  Fortunately  for  Eliza,  at  the  period 
of  her  infancy,  the  progress  of  improvement  had  not  driven  afar 
that  scourge  of  the  human  race,  which,  for  centuries,  swept 
thousands  to  the  grave,  and  ploughed  the  faces  who  escaped,  with 
furrows  that  obliterated  the  tint,  and  almost  the  form  bestowed 
at  their  birth.  The  two  elder  sisters  passed  through  the  dis 
ease  unscathed  ;  but  the  younger  underwent  all  its  virulence. 

When  health  was  restored,  that  beauty  which  gave  to  her 
countenance  a  seraphic  character,  was  gone.  The  discolora 
tion,  by  degrees,  vanished,  but  the  scars  and  seams  remained 
indelible.  The  same  flowing  silken  tresses  which  adorned  the 
brilliant  beauty  of  her  sisters,  remained  to  remind  her  friends 
of  the  charms  which  were  forever  departed  ;  and  the  same  per 
fection  of  form  was  hers  :  but  the  face  was  disfigured — robbed 
of  the  beauty  bestowed  by  nature — left  destitute  of  charms — 
until  years  developed  character ;  and  beauty,  unassailable  by 
disease,  replaced  the  fleeting  attractions  of  surface. 

The  preference  her  sisters  demanded,  and  obtained  in  early 
life,  from  all  persons ;  the  neglect  and  slight  Eliza  endured 
from  her  parents  as  well  as  strangers,  gave  a  direction  to  her 
mind  which  strengthened  her  intellect ;  and  instead  of  souring 
her  temper,  as  might  happen  with  the  weak,  placed  her  above 
the  desire  of  admiration  ;  which,  as  she  did  not  consider  her 
due,  she  was  pleased  to  see  bestowed  upon  her  sisters.  Her 
thoughts  were  occupied  by  the  acquisition  of  knowledge.  She 
sought,  by  every  means  that  accorded  with  her  devotion  to  her 
relatives,  for  every  intellectual  improvement ;  and  as  her 
thoughts  were  turned  from  vanity,  they  were  fixed  on  duty  and 
love  to  her  earthly  and  heavenly  parents. 

Still,  at  the  time  of  her  arrival  in  America  for  the  second 
time,  the  countenance  of  Eliza  Atherton,  at  the  first  view,  had 
nothing  attractive — nay,  was  almost  repulsive.  But  when  the 
varied  expression  of  her  mild  blue  eyes  were  recognised,  and 
the  fiank  smile  of  benevolence  which  played  about  her  pale  lipsr 
had  found  its  way  to  the  understanding  or  the  heart  of  the  spec 
tator — when  the  unaffected  dignity  of  her  lady-like  manners  and 
person,  made  itself  known  and  felt — when  the  graces  of  her 
conversation,  (rich  in  all  the  lore  which  may  best  become  a 
female,)  were  heard  by  one  who  could  appreciate  them,  Eliza 
Atherton  might  be  called  a  charming,  although  not  a  beautiful 
Avoman  ;  and  her  charms  were  enduring  as  life. 

Spiffard  remained  with  his  interesting  aunt  until  she  was 
safely  and  commodiously  established  at  the  City  Hotel,  with 
such  part  of  her  travelling  equipage  as  could  be  immediately 


Winter. — An  English  heroine.  69 

landed  and  removed  by  the  aid  of  a  hack  coachman,  and  a  sturdy 
English  lass,  who,  from  attachment  to  the  person  she  did  not 
hesitate  to  call  mistress,  had  crossed^the  Atlantic  contrary  to  the 
advise  of  friends,  who,  though  obliged  to  accept  of  parochial 
relief,  and  submit  to  the  degradation  of  pauperism,  clung  to  the 
soil  of  old  England,  and  doubted  the  tales  of  independent 
abundance,  which  were  told  of  a  land  beyond  sea. 

It  had  been  Spiffard's  wish  that  his  aunt  should  take  up  her 
abode  at  his  house  until  she  had  a  proper  introduction  to  that 
of  Williams  ;  but  objections  urged  with  perfect  delicacy  over 
ruled  his  intention.  Miss  Atherton  did  not  know  of  his  mar 
riage  until  told  by  himself.  The  name  of  Mrs.  SpifFard  had 
not  appeared  in  any  American  papers  that  she  had  seen.  It 
had  only  been  announced  in  the  play-bills  some  weeks  before 
her  arrival.  She  was  too  well  instructed  not  to  know  the 
worth  of  many  female  professors  of  the  histrionic  art,  yet  she 
felt  no  desire  to  associate  with  them  ;  there  was  an  undefined 
feeling — an  impression — almost  a  conviction — that  her  habits, 
manners  and  conversation  would  not  agree  with,  or  be  agree 
able  to  those  who  made  the  stage  a  profession.  This  might 
be  mere  prejudice  :  I  only  state  the  fact.  She  did  not  decide 
whether  they  were  above  or  below  her  in  the  scale  of  society. 
She  felt,  that  with  the  Bruntons,  the  Farrens,  the  Kemble?, 
and  the  Siddonses,  she  would  be  out  of  her  place. 

In  arranging- the  location  of  her  temporary  residence,  these 
feelings  had  not  been  brought  in  view.  Miss  Atherton  told 
her  nephew  truly,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  before  embark 
ing  on  her  voyage,  that  she  would  go  to  some  hotel  on  landing, 
and  ascertain  the  situation  of  her  friends  before  determining 
further  on  her  course — that,  as  she  found  her  sister  was  ill,  and 
might  be  injured  by  any  sudden  shock,  she  thought  it  best  to 
adhere  to  her  first  arrangement  until  she  had  seen  the  physician 
who  attended  her.  Besides,  it  might  give  offence  if  she  went 
to  any  other  private  house  than  that  of  General  Williams.  A 
hotel  she  still  thought  was  the  best  place  to  receive  her,  and 
after,  she  should  be  guided  by  circumstances  and  her  nephew's 
counsel. 

Williams  was  not  a  little  surprised  at  receiving  a  note  from 
Spiffard  the  day  after  Miss  Atherton's  arrival,  informing  him 
of  that  circumstance ;  of  her  father's  death;  and  the  intent  of  the 
voyage.  He  added,  that  she  wished  to  see  her  sister  imme 
diately  ;  and  gave  him  notice  where  Eliza  was  to  be  found. 

The  subtle  speculator  had  at  that  moment  been  employed  in 
balancing  the  advantages  against  the  disadvantages  of  losing 


70  Winter. — Jin  English  heroine. 

his  wife.  Great  changes  in  his  situation  must  result  from  her 
death.  He  would  lose  five  hundred  pounds  sterling  a  year ; 
but  a  burthen  and  a  chain  would  be  removed.  He  could  start 
anew,  free  to  pursue  his  crooked  ways,  and  endowed  with 
•sufficient  wealth  to  meet  the  world's  gaze  broadly.  He  con 
gratulated  himself  upon  his  foresight ;  the  cunning  that  had 
provided  for  his  worldly  well-being  by  the  stipulation  which 
secured  him  an  annuity,  in  case  of  her  decease  before  him  ; 
that  ensured  him  competence  for  life.  He  was,  (to  use  a  com 
mon  expression)  "  hugging  himself"  in  the  prospect  of  future 
ease  obtained  by  his  own  management.  "  She  will  be  for 
gotten,  and  all  suspicion  lulled  to  sleep  of  my "  He  did 

not,  even  in  thought,  use  the  word  that  would  have  finished  the 
sentence  with  truth. 

Spiffard's  note  alarmed  him.  He  could  not  prevent  the 
meeting  of  the  sisters.  He  feared  that  the  dishonourable  con 
tract  might  be  disclosed  by  which  he  had  relieved  his  wife 
from  her  disgraceful  situation.  To  avoid  this  exposure  was 
iiis  first  consideration.  He  must  gain  the  good  will  of  her 
sister,  and,  if  possible,  of  the  ugly  little  repulsive  actor,  her 
nephew.  The  first,  he  thought,  his  person  and  manners  could 
accomplish:  the  second  appeared  almost  a  forlorn-hope  ;  but, 
in  his  opinion,  flattery  would  remove  mountains.  In  the  mean 
time  his  wife  must  be  informed  of  her  sisters  arrival,  and  be 
prepared  for  an  interview  with  her. 

Mrs.  Williams  was  in  a  state  of  exhaustion  ;  nature  seem 
ing  to  bo  supported  merely  by  the  skill  of  her  medical  attend 
ant.     She  had  occasional  returns   of  brain-fever,  violent  pa 
roxysms  of  insanity,  in  which  her  ravings  appeared  to  be  partly 
-occasioned  by  physical  sufferings,  but  more  from  recollec  tions 
of  the  past,  and  fears  of  the  future — the   last  were  at  times 
frightful — at  times  touchingly  distressing.     She  received  the 
tidings  of  her  sister's  arrival,  at  first,  with  calmness  approaching 
to  joy.     It  was  necessary  to  inform  her  of  the   death  o  f  her 
father.     This  caused  a  relapse  into  madness.     On  recove  ring, 
the  sister's  image  was  present  to  her  mind,  and   she  be  came 
impatient  to  see  her — this  was  succeeded  by  a  dread  of  meet- 
4n^ — alleviated  by  the  recollection  of  her  uniform  kindne  ss  of 
deportment.      "  She   was    always   good !     She    was   al  ways- 
good  ! !  ! — But  my  father!  my  mother  t"  and  again  a  frig  htful 
paroxysm  could  only  be  relieved  by  insensibility. 

In  the  mean  time  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spiffard  waited  upon  Miss 
Atherton  at  the  hotel.  The  ladies  did  not  feel  that  cord  iality 
which  sometimes  springs  forth  at  first  sight.  All,  how  ever, 


Winter. — Jin  English  heroine.  71 

was  conducted  in  good  taste  on  one  part,  and  good  tact  on  the 
other.  The  visit  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Williams, 
who  came  to  conduct  Eliza  Atherton  to  her  sister. 

Miss  Atherton  had  much  the  same  feelings  on  the  approach 
and  in  the  presence  of  Williams  as  those  I  have  endeavoured 
to  describe  in  the  case  of  our  hero  Zebediah  Spiffard,  when  he 
by  accident  first  encountered  him.  But  the  lady's  sensa 
tions  were  much  more  under  command,  and  partook  of  the 
character  of  the  sex,  and  of  the  individual. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spiffard  departed ;  and  the  General  having 
communicated  the  message  from  his  wife,  and  expressed,  in 
right  courtly  phrase,  his  own  vehement  desire  that  Miss  Ather 
ton  would,  without  delay,  see  and  soothe  the  agitated  feelings 
of  her  suffering  sister, — Eliza  placed  herself,  on  the  instant, 
under  his  guidance  ;  every  thought  and  feeling  of  self  merged 
in  the  desire  to  convey  consolation  to  the  lost  Sophia. 

What  a  change  was  presented  to  the  eyes  of  the  affectionate 
Eliza  ! — We  will  not  dwell  on  the  contrast  these  two  sisters 
formed.  In  one  was  seen  the  results  of  vanity  and  passion, 
unrestrained  by  parental  admonition,  leading  to  degradation  of 
the  lowest  kind,  and  to  disease  and  untimely  death  ;  in  the 
other,  the  effects  of  patient  suffering  under  wrongs,  self-go 
vernment,  and  self- education  ;  conducting  to  strength  of  mind, 
and  the  practise  of  every  virtue  ;  rewarded  by  health  and  the 
consciousness  of  rectitude. 

Miss  Atherton  resolved  to  take  up  her  abode  under  the  roof 
that  sheltered  her  dying  sister, even  before  she  heard  the  earnest 
entreaties  with  which  such  an  arrangement  was  urged.  Mrs. 
Williams  seemed,  after  an  hour  passed  with  the  once  neglected 
Eliza,  to  feel  that  in  her  presence  alone  she  had  any  stay — 
any  support — any  hope  in  this  world  or  the  next.  Even  her 
exhausted  frame  recovered  some  force  in  consequence  of  that 
medicine,  so  soothing  to  the  wounded  mind,  which  was  ad 
ministered  by  such  a  physician  :  her  sister's  arrival  seemed  at 
first  to  threaten  an  acceleration  of  the  expected  catastrophe  ; 
but  in  reality  was  found  to  remove  it  to  a  period  somewhat 
more  distant. 

To  the  relief  which  the  union  with  such  a  sister  afforded 
to  the  sinking  penitent  was  added  the  consolation,  that  in  his 
dying  moments  her  father  had  forgiven  her,  and  desired  that 
his  blessing  might  ameliorate  her  sufferings,  whenever  she 
should  feel  the  stings  of  conscience.  This  forgiveness  and 
blessing  were  borne  to  the  sufferer  by  one  who,  in  every  res 
pect,  was  to  her  an  angel  bringing  the  tidings  of  peace. 


72  Winter. — Jin  English  heroine. 

The  extreme  illness  of  Mrs.  Williams  was  a  sufficient  rea 
son  for  Miss  Atherton  not  visiting  the  family  of  their  nephew. 
He  had  been,  by  the  desire  of  the  dying  woman,  introduced 
to  her ;  and,  now  that  Eliza  was  an  inmate,  felt  no  reluctance 
to  enter  the  house  of  the  detested  Williams,  with  whom,  how 
ever,  he  had  no  intercourse  further  than  cold  civility  required. 
In  his  dying  aunt  he  saw  much  to  remind  him  of  those  scenes 
he  had  witnessed  in  his  father's  house,  and  of  that  evil  he  most 
dreaded — strengthening  those  feelings,  and  rendering  more 
vivid  those  imaginings,  which  drove  him  to  the  brink  of 
madness,  at  such"  times  as  he  brooded  over  his  fears. 

One  day,  when  Mrs.  Williams  was  in  the  enjoyment  of 
comparative  tranquillity,  Miss  Atherton  proposed  to  accompany 
Spiffard  to  his  home  :  with  the  frankness  appertaining  to  her 
independent  character,  she  made  the  proposal  on  the  first 
opportunity  that  had  offered  ;  Spiffard  willingly  agreed  :  and 
the  proposed  visit  was  immediately  carried  into  effect.  When 
they  arrived,  Mrs.  Epsom  and  her  daughter  had  not  yet  re 
turned  from  rehearsal.  No  one  was  at  home  but  Emma 
Portland. 

We  have  spoken  of  antipathies  and  sympathies ;  and  shown 
the  force  of  the  first  in  two  instances.  We  have  now  to  illus 
trate  the  second  by  example. 

Spiffard  was  disappointed  in  not  finding  his  wife  at  home. 
He  briefly  introduced  his  aunt  to  Enama. 

"  Miss  Emma  Portland.     Miss  Atherton." 

Emma  was  found  evidently  (dressed  and  employed)  as  one 
who  was  at  home.  She  was  sitting  at  her  usual  morning 
needle-work,  in  all  the  elegance  of  simple  habiliment :  her 
sunny  locks,  shading  her  soft  but  radiant  eyes,  in  a  disorder, 
not  the  result  of  slovenly  carelessness,  but  of  exuberance,  and 
the  absence  of  that  attention  to  adjustment,  which  the  expecta 
tion  of  a  visiter  would  demand.  The  muslin  and  the  work- 
basket — the  needle  and  the  thimble,  all  denoted  one  of  the 
family. 

"  And  who  is  Miss  Emma  Portland  ?"  said  Miss  Atherton  : 
her  face  strongly  expressing  surprise  and  delight.  "  Why 
should  I  find  her  here,  and  apparently  one  of  your  family,  and 
not  have  been  prepared  for  such  a  meeting  1  Why  have  I 
never  heard  of  this  lovely  young  lady]" 

Before  Emma  could  recover  from  her  surprise — a  surprise 
mingled  with  pleasure,  as  she  gazed  upon  a  woman  she  had 
heard  described  as  repulsive  in  appearance,  but  who  appeared 
to  her  all-attractive,  from  the  frankness  of  her  manner  and 


Winter. — <An  English  heroine.  73 


o 


the  charming  expression  of  a  benevolenj  countenance — before 
she  knew  her  own  thoughts  at  this  smiling  apparition  and  un 
expected  exclamation,  she  felt  the  warm  embrace  and  mater 
nal  kiss  of  this  frank-hearted  Englishwoman. 

The  sympathy  which  unites  two  such  beings  is  of  no  clime 
or  country.  There  was  an  absence  of  reserve  which  might 
have  startled  some ;  but  there  was  nothing  in  the  manner  of 
the  foreigner  that  was  uncongenial  to  Emma  Portland,  be 
cause  there  was  nothing  artificial.  There  was  no  assumed 
superiority  ;  and  the  real  superiority,  which  more  years  and 
more  knowledge  conferred,  wTere  not  thought  of  by  the  one, 
and  were  felt  as  an  offered  protection — a  gift  and  ji  blessing — 
by  the  other. 

Miss  Atherton's  quick  glance  perceived  in  Emma  Portland 
the  ingenuous  innocence  of  youth,  united  to  beauty  of  body 
and  mind.  It  was  the  glance  of  intelligence  exchanged  with 
intelligence.  The  sympathy  of  the  good  attracting  to  the 
good.  From  this  time  Emma  had  a  friend  of  her  own  sex. 
One  to  whom,  if  needed,  she  could  look  for  protection  or 
advice.  In  her  highly  gifted  cousin,  Mrs.  Spitfard,  though 
confident  of  her  good  will,  and  admiring  her  talents,  she  had 
never  felt  that  union  of  soul  which  is  necessary  to  communion 
of  thought. 

The  advantage  which  she  might  have  derived  from  Miss 
Atherton's  society,  was,  for  the  present,  denied  by  the  neces 
sary  attendance  of  that  lady  on  Mrs.  Williams.  Otherwise, 
in  Emma's  visits  to  the  sick  and  poor,  or  her  endeavours  to 
impart  knowledge  to  the  neglected,  Eliza  Atherton  would  have 
been  willingly  a  partner,  a  companidii,  and  at  times  a  pro 
tector. 


74 


CHAPTER  Till. 

The  hoax  renewed,  and  a  mystenj  in 

"  I  will  unfold  some  causes." — Shalispeare. 

"  The  deadly  arrow  still  clings  to  his  side.— Virgil. 

"  What  grief  hath  set  the  jaundice  on  your  cheeks  T 

e<  A  noble  gentleman  'tis,  if  he  would  not  keep  so  good  a  house.  Many  a 
time  and  often  I  have  dined  with  him  and  told  him  on't :  and  come  again  to 
supper  to  him,  of  purpose  to  have  him  spend  less.  *  *  *  This  is  no  time 
to  lend  money." 

" it  doth  confirm 

Another  stain"    *     *     *    "as  big  as  hell  can  hold." — Shakspeare. 

WE  must  return  to  the  frolicsome  youths,  who,  with  perfect 
good  will  to  our  hero,  had  begun  to  execute  a  plot  with  success, 
in  which  they  saw  nothing  but  sport,  and  whose  termination., 
in  any  serious  mischief,  was  farthest  from  their  thoughts. 

On  the  evening  of  the  clay  that  the  meeting  with  Mr.  Smith 
(though  not  Captain  Smith)  took  place  at  the  Albany  coffee 
house,  SpirTard,  as  was  his  wont,  when  he  only  played  in  the 
farce,  and  when  the  old  tragedian  was  the  attraction  of  the 
night,  walked  into  Cooke's  dressing-room,  knowing  that  the 
veteran  was  not  required  on  the  stage  until  the  second  act 
of  the  play,  and  wishing  to  have  a  little  friendly  chat  with  one 
to  whom  he  felt  an  attachment,  the  cause  of  which  was,  per 
haps,  unknown  to  himself.  An  attachment  which  was  one 
great  inducement  for  his  frequenting  the  tables  where  wine  was 
abused  by  the  so  called  use  of  it.  If  it  was  a  fault,  grievously 
he  suffered  for  it. 

The  disappointment  of  the  morning  had  relieved  SpirTard 
from  a  load,  and  lie  felt  not  a  little  the  better  for  the  relief. 
Cooke  was  still  in  good  condition,  and  had,  since  his  last  ill- 


The  hoax  renewed,  and  a  mystery  in  Albany.  75 

ness,  preserved  his  faculties  of  body  and  mind  in  as  perfect 
a  state  asmight  be  with  a  man  whose  habits  had  been  for  years 
at  enmity  with  health  and  reason. 

On  Spiffard's  entrance,  the  old  man  accosted  him  cheerfully* 
with,  "  Well,  my  young  friend !  Where  have  you  been  1  I  have 
not  seen  you  to-day." 

44  The  morning  was  occupied  in  attempting  to  meet  Captain 
Smith." 

Cooke's  face  assumed  that  peculiar  expression  of  archness, 
which  none  can  realize  who  have  not  seen  him  on  or  off  the 
stage,  and  holding  his  head  somewhat  down,  he  turned  up  his 
eyes,  somewhat  as  he  used  when  he  repeated,  4'  do  you  think 
I  didn't  know  you  1"  A  look  which  none  who  saw  it  can  for 
get.  "  So — so — you  did  not  meet  him." 

The  veteran  felt  himself  bound  not  to  "  peach."  as  Hilson 
had  termed  it.  This  look  might  have  excited  suspicion  in 
any  but  the  straight-forward  Vermont er. 

"  Captain  Smith  dissapointed  you." 

"  Yes.  After  all  the  parade  of  demanding  an  apology, 
and  pretension  to  honour,  he  did  not  keep  his  appointment." 

44  Then  you — you  know  nothing  of  Captain  Smith  V 

"  Only  as  the  fellow  who  abused  Mrs.  Spiffard  when  she 
was  playing  Lady  Macbeth." 

"  I  remember — you  mean  the  blackguard  you  were  obliged 
to  reprimand  for  disturbing  the  audience  by  his  impertinence. " 

"  He  turns  out  to  be  a  gentleman — or  at  least  pretends  to 
demand  an  apology  from  me." 

"  But  you  told  me,"  said  Cooke,  wishing  to  give  a  hint, 
"  you  told  me  that  both  the  fellows  were  in  pea-jackets  or 
dread-naughts — or  some  such  apparel — and  were  as  rough  in 
appearance  as  in  manners." 

*'  So  they  were.  But  Cooper  says  that  might  be  disguise  : 
an  appearance  and  manner  assumed  in  sport.  And  Allen  says 
that  Captain  Smith  is  a  gentleman  commanding  a  fine  ship,, 
and  a  man  of  honour.  And  Cooper,  you  know — " 

"  0,  yes,  Tom  is  up  to  all  that.  But  it's  all  over  now* 
You  got  rid  of  the  affair  !" 

44  He  did  not  make  his  appearance." 

44  So.     I  supposed  as  much." 

44  Why? — You  do  not  know  him  ?" 

"  ]VJo. — Upon  my  word  I  do  not.  No  more  than  if  he  never 
had  existence.  And  you  found  no  traces  of  him  at  the  place- 
he  appointed  ?  No  Captain  Smith  was  to  be  heard  of." 


76  TJie  hoax  renewed,  and  a  mystery  in- Albany. 

"  0,  yes.  The  bar-keeper  said  that  he  frequented  the 
house." 

"  0,  then  it  is  not  over  yet.  You  will  see  or  hear  from  him 
again — by  and  by." 

*'  I  rather  think  that  he  has  thought  best  to  drop  the  unprofit 
able  affair." 

"Unprofitable.  Yes,  yes,  it  had  best  be  dropt — I  advise — " 

What  further  light  the  old  gentleman  was  going  to  let  in 
upon  his  friend's  unsuspicious  mind,  cannot  be  known,  for  the 
eternal  call-boy,  whose  mandate  is  as  peremptory  as  that  of 
fate,  appeared  with  his  list  of  summonses  in  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Cooke!  to  begin  the  second  act!" 

"  I'm  ready.     Send  Kent  to  me,  my  good  boy." 

"  And  I'll  go  and  prepare  for  Caleb  Quotem." 

So  ended  a  colloquy,  which,  continued  a  minute  or  two  lon 
ger,  might  have  spared  years  of  bitter  reflection.  So  are  we 
governed  by  apparent,  or  real,  trifles  ! 

The  gay  and  frolic-loving  Allen,  the  equally  sport-loving 
Hilson,  and  many  other  of  the  young  manager's  friends,  (Cooke 
and  Spiffard  both  having  engagements,  were  not  of  the  party,) 
dined  with  him.  His  ever  open  hand  and  house  were  like  that 
of  Lord  Timon's — some  of  his  friends  were  Athenians  too — it 
will  be  so. 

Over  the  after-dinner's  accompaniments,  the  wines  of 
France,  the  fruits  of  Italy,  and  the  cigars  of  Spain,  with  Iri^h 
whiskey,  cogniac  brandy  and  West  India  rum — so  tables  were 
covered  thirty  years  ago — over  such  stimulants,  in  the  inter 
val  between  the  song,  the  glee  and  the  glass,  the  manager  re 
lated  with  much  humour  the  adventure  at  the  Albany  Coffee- 
House,  concluding  with  "  I  wish  Spiff  would  come.  I  want 
to  see  how  he  would  take  the  disclosure  of  the  plot.  He's  a 
good  fellow  !  I  believe  I  might  have  passed  the  little  old  gen 
tleman  with  the  cane-coloured  wig  upon  him  for  the  redoubted 
Captain  John  Smith.  Do  you  think  he  will  believe  it  was  all 
a  trick,  when  we  tell  him  that  no  captain  Smith — at  least  for 
him — is  in  existence  ?" 

"  Why  truly,  a  man's  word  may  be  doubted  when  he  acknow 
ledges  a  deceit.  Truth  has  but  one  face,"  remarked  one  of 
the  guests. 

"  Suppose,"  said  Hilson,  "  that  Spiff  should  turn  the  tables 
on  us,  as  Cooke  did  after  the  Cato  duel,  and  say  he  knew  from 
the  beginning  what  we  meant,  and  only  shammed  innocence  to 
let  us  hoax  ourselves.  Suppose  he  comes  off  with,  '  I  knew  ye 
all,'  like  FalstafH" 


The  hoax  renewed,  and  a  mystery  in  Albany.  77 

"  He  can't !  He  can't !  He's  as  easily  seen  through  as  his 
O'.vn  beverage.  I  long  to  explain  and  have  the  laugh  upon 
him !» 

"  Why  you  don't  mean  to  give  up  the  joke  now  that  you 
have  a  real  Captain  Smith  to  carry  it  on  with?" 

"  We've  gone  far  enough.  Let  us  have  our  laugh  and  have 
done  with  it." 

"  Why  give  up  the  game  ?'  said  Allen,  "  when  we  have  it 
all  in  our  own  hands.  Spiff  knows,  from  the  waiter's  cr  the 
bar-keeper's  testimony  that  there  is  a  Captain  Smith  who  fre 
quents  the  Albany  Coffee-House.  All  we  have  to  do  is  to 
make  appointments  and  keep  them  from  meeting.  Chance 
has  made  a  man  for  us,  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  play  him." 

The  manager  still  protested  against  carrying  on  the  hoax 
any  further  ;  and  if  Spiffard  had  fortunately  dropped  in,  there 
would  have  been  an  end  of  it,  in  a  laugh.  But  as  the  wine 
declined  in  the  bottles  and  mounted  elsewhere  ;  as  noise  in 
creased  and  the  tobacco  smoke  thickened,  Allen  and  the  Col 
onel  persuaded  the  company  that  the  opportunity  must  not  be 
lost  of  trying  how  far  the  credulity  of  a  man  of  good  sense 
might  be  imposed  upon.  They  forgot  the  remark  of  one  of 
Hie  company,  "  that  truth  has  but  one  face."  They  did  not  see 
(through  the  mists  about  them)  some  other  truisms,  that  might 
have  stood  in  their  way  :  the  second  act  of  the  drama  was  ma 
tured,  the  plot  founded  on  the  "  lucky  circumstance,"  as  Allen 
called  it,  "  that  a  Captain  Smith  occasionally  frequented  the 
Albany  Coffee  House  ;  that  they  bad  a  man  ready  made  to 
their  hands,  and  had  only  to  move  him  as  the  game  required." 

Allen  was  himself  to  make  the  first  move.  Cooper  declared 
off:  Allen  was  to  act  as  friend  and  counseller.  The  manager 
promised  not  to  inform.  But  it  was  agreed  to  let  the  matter 
rest  a  few  days,  and  a  journey  which  Spiffard  made  a  short  time 
after,  deferred  their  sport  yet  longer. 

There  was  at  this  time  a  company  of  actors  performing  at 
Albany,  and  offers  for  a  few  nights'  exertion  of  his  talents  had 
l>een  made  to  Mr.  Spiffard,  which  by  a  friendly  arrangement 
with  the  New-York  manager,  he  was  enabled  to  accept. 

Although  January  had  commenced,  the  great  river  was  still 
open,  the  severity  of  winter  had  not  yet  been  experienced  ;  and 
my  readers  know  that  the  clear,  frosty,  but  moderate  weather 
of  our  early  winter  is  health-and-joy-inspiring.  Spiffard  looked 
forward  to  the  excursion  with  pleasure.  He  had  been  in  Al 
bany  but  once,  and  then  merely  to  pass  through  it  from  Can- 

VOL.  n.  4 


78  The  hoax  renewed,  and  a  mystery  in  Albany. 

ada.     He  did  not  feel  the  worse  that  Captain  Smith  had  ab 
sconded. 

Mrs.  Spiffard  did  not  seem  at  ease  when  the  project  of  these 
few  days  residence  in  Albany  was  communicated  to  her  by 
her  husband.  She  even  changed  colour. 

"  You  have  told  me  that  you  were  some  time  there — how 
did  you  like  the  place  ?" 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  Have  you  any  friends  there — any  acquaintance  ?' 

"  No/' 

"  Where  is  the  best  boarding-house  ?" 

"  By  all  means  go  to  Cruttenden's.  It  is  on  the  hill  and  near 
the  State-house.  By  all  means  go  there,  Mr.  Spiffard  ;  he  is 
a  friend  to  the  drama — you  will  like  him  and  his  house." 

"  I  should  wish  to  be  near  the  theatre." 

44  There  is — a  place  nearer — but  it  is  a  vile  house  and  very 
disagreeable  people.  Do  not  go  there." 

Now  it  so  happened  that  Cruttenden's  hotel  was  full.  Throng 
ed  with  members  of  the  Legislature  ;  and  chance,  as  it  is 
called,  led  Spiffard,  to  a  public  house,  half  tavern,  half  boarding 
house,  kept  by  an  Englishman  of  the  name  of  Thompson. 
There  he  was  received  ;  and  found  that  it  had  been  the  usual 
resort  of  the  Thespians  who  visited  the  seat  of  government  ;. 
but,  for  some  cause  not  within  his  or  my  knowledge,  was  ra 
ther  shunned  at  this  time. 

The  landlord  was  a  garrulous  beer-drinker,  and  not  unlike 
Farquhar's  Boniface  in  person,  manner  or  reverence  for  the 
strength  of  his  potations.  He  was  a  short,  fat  man;  not  r;tout 
and  portly ;  but  heavy  and  burly.  His  wife  looked  like  his 
twin  sister. 

After  the  fatigues,  the  pleasure,  and  the  exertion  of  an  eve 
ning's  performance,  Spifiard  entered  and  found  his  landlord 
sitting  with  his  hand  on  the  handle  of  a  tankard  ;  and  his  coun 
terpart,  in  petticoats,  employed  within  the  railing  which  separ 
ated  the  bar  from  the  space  occupied  by  newspapers,  and,  at 
this  time,  by  Boniface. 

"  Great  house,  I  understand,  to-night,  sir." 

"  The  house  appeared  full." 

"  Not  so,  before  you  came,  sir.    What  will  you  drink,  sir  ?" 

**  A  tumbler  of  water." 

Thompson  recommended  his  beer  and  his  brandy,  his  rum 
and  his  gin,  his  whiskey,  but  above  all  his  ale — then  frothing, 
in  the  tankard.  To  his  surprise  all  was  without  effect. 

"  What  do  you  drink,  sir  ?" 


The  hoax  renewed,  and  a  mystery  in  Albany.  79 

"  Water." 

14  Bless  me.     That  makes  you  so  thin." 

44 1  am  well,  and  strong.  1  doubt  not,  landlord,  that  I  could 
carry  you  up  the  hill  to  the  capitol  much  easier  than  you  could 
carry  me." 

"  That  would  be  a  funny  sight  sure  enough.  John  finds  it 
hard  work  to  carry  himself."  said  Mrs.  Thompson. 

44  Well,  sir,  that  may  be,  but  I  shouldn't  be  more  surprised 
to  find  myself  riding  up  the  hill  on  your  shoulders,  than  I  am 
to  find  a  hactor  refusing  good  liquor.  Why  I've  ad  ladies  in 
my  ouse  who  would  toss  off  a  pint  of  brown-stout  after  hacting, 
or  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water  before  going  to  the  theatre,  and 
another  before  going  to  bed — haye,  by  George !  and  some 
times  two  or  three  of  them.  There  was  Mrs.  Hepsom  and  er 
daughter — fine  women,  both — I  ear  she  as  changed  er  name 
lately — I  mean  the  daughter — as  to  the  mother — " 

"  With  your  leave,  Mr.  Thompson,  I  will  take  this  candle 
and  retire." 

44  The  servant  has  been  late  in  lighting  your  fire  and  has  not 
come  down  yet.  Take  a  little  summut,  sir." 

44  Nothing." 

The  landlady  went  up  stairs  shouting  for  the  servant  to 
come  down.  Thompson  finished  his  tankard  of  ale  and  pro 
ceeded  to  finish  his  beer-imbued  speech — "  A  fine  looking 
stately  dame  that  Mrs.  Trowbridge — or  Miss  Hepsom — for  I 
don't  believe — yet  if  that  Trowbridge  adn't  broke  his  neck 
hout  of  the  gig — " 

44  Room's  ready  now,  sir,"  said  the  puffing  dame,  "  but  do 
take  a  little  summut  " 

44  Goodnight,  Mr.  Thompson!"  said Spiffard,  with  any  thing 
but  a  somfortable  addition  of  ideas  for  chamber  companions, 
hurried  up  stairs. 

44  Good  night,  Muster  Spiffard,  and  good  rest  to  your  honour!' ' 
said  the  burly  landlady. 

44  Spiffard !  Spiffard !"  echoed  Boniface,  with  mouth  and 
eyes  wide  stretched ;  looking  like  one  who  tried  to  think  but 
was  unused  to  the  occupation.  '4  Spiffard  !  Odsbodikins,  dame 
Thompson,  by  George,  1  do  believe  that's  the  name  of  that 
hactor  that  married — hand  it  never  struck  me  before.  I  am  a 
little  frightful  that  I  might  a  said  a  summut  that  ee  would'nt 
hover-like  to  ear.  Fore  George  I'm  glad  I  didn't  tell  im  what 
I  might  a ve — what  did  I  say?  Do  you  remember?  The 
thought  never  struck  me  till  you  called  is  name." 

44  Thoughts  don't  often  strike  you  John.  If  you'd  drink  less 
and  think  more,  the  ouse  might  do  better." 


80  The  hoax  renew  cd^  and  a  mystery  in  Albany. 

"  Don'Ualk  to  me  woman  ! —  but  I  didn't  tell  him  of  that — " 

"  Hush!i  John !  Walls  ave  hears.  Least  said  is  soonest 
mended.  That  was  a  terrible  night — it's  well  it's  only  known 
to  ourselves." 

"  When  I  mentioned  er  name  ee  was  off  like  a  stage 
coach." 

Every  hint,  that  had,  since  SpifFard's  marriage,  reached  his  ears 
and  caused  him  pain  in  respect  to  his  wife's  former  history— 
every  suspicion  that  had  been  forced  upon  his  unsuspecting 
nature — now  was  recalled  to  mind.  Every  light  word,  spoken 
by  his  light  companions,  was,  against  his  will,  remembered. 
He  could  not  sleep  during  a  long  winter's  night.  The  mind 
must  be  sorely  distressed  when  youth,  health  and  temperance, 
cannot  find  rest  after  fatigue  of  body.  He  could  almost  envy 
the  snoring  of  his  beer-bloated  landlord,  whose  sonorous  breath 
ings  were  plainly  heard  through  two  partitions,  "  making 
night  hideous." 

"  0,  why  did  I  marry  so  hastily  ?" 

His  short  engagement  finished,  SpifTard  took  the  stage  for 
New- York,  the  winter  had  set  in  hard — not  harder  than  "the 
winter  of  his  discontent."  He  returned  richer  in  purse — poor 
er  in  spirit.  He  was  almost  as  miserable  as  a  good  man  could 
be  made — yet  more  suffering  awaited  him — and  more  cause  to 
cry,  "  0,  why  did  I  marry  so  hastily?" 

He  had  reason  to  lament  that  he  had  married  a  woman  bom 
and  educated  in  another  land,  without  knowing  her  domestic- 
habits  or  her  previous  story.  Our  hero  was  the  most  honest, 
the  most  frank,  most  trusting,  most  credulous  of  any  creature 
that  had  ever  been  thrown  among  civilized  men,  yet  he  was  an 
actor  by  profession. 

Spiffard  felt  that  he  had  been  deceived  ;  and  knew  that  he 
had  deceived  himself.  He  felt  that  the  dearest  lies  of  life 
were  not  for  him.  He  still  admired  the  talents  of  his  wife,  and 
would  willingly  have  loved  her  :  but  love  cannot  exist  where 
confidence  is  wanting.  It  is  the  seal  to  the  bond  of  matrimo 
ny  :  the  bond  is  worse  than  worthless  without  it. 

Mrs.  Spiffard,  on  her  husband's  return  from  Albany,  per 
ceived  a  change  in  his  looks  and  behaviour.  She  soon  under 
stood  from  him  that  he  had  boarded  at  Thompson's.  "  The 
thief  does  fear  each  bush  an  officer."  She  thought  of  an 
avowal.  She  had  been  misled  by  her  own  passions  and  the 
arts  of  a  scoundrel.  The  tale  is  too  common  to  be  told.  This 
might  be  forgiven  by  one  who  looked  for  forgiveness.  But 
the  habit  induced  by  previous  misery,  (with  encouragement 


The  hoax  renewed,  and  a  mystery  in  dlbamj.  81 

from  a  weak  parent  and  temptation  from  professional  fatigue,) 
could  not  be  tolerated.  Notwithstanding  remonstrances,  en 
treaties  and  arguments,  on  one  side,  and  tears  and  repentance 
and  promises  on  the  other,  he  saw  that  which  he  most  abhorred, 
most  dreaded.  He  felt  that  he  was  miserable  in  the  time  pre 
sent,  and  anticipated  greater  misery  in  the  future. 

The  situation  of  Mrs.  Williams  was  a  sufficient  excuse  for 
Eliza  Atherton's  not  associating  with  Mrs.  Spiffard  ;  but  the 
unhappy  husband  saw  the  difference  in  his  aunt's  behaviour 
when  she  conversed  with  his  wife,  and  when  she  opened  her 
heart  to  Emma  Portland.  Sometimes  he  thought  of  pouring 
out  his  griefs  and  asking  Miss  Atherton's  counsel.  But  the 
subject  was  too  sacred,  and  his  delicacy  too  great.  The  at 
tention  of  that  lady  to  her  suffering  sister  made  their  meetings 
nnfrequent. 

He  was  the  favourite  comedian  of  the  public.  Even  Twaits 
and  Hilson  were  forgotten  when  Spiffard  appeared.  He  was 
received  with  plaudits,  for  which  the  sound  of  his  voice  before 
he  entered  was  the  signal.  Merriment  was  induced  by  the 
sight  of  his  face,  and  laughter  burst  forth  in  anticipation.  His 
musical  talents  always  produced  admiration  and  delight:  but 
he  knew  not  pleasure  nor  peace.  Applause  had  staled  on 
his  ear.  He  only  laughed  as  a  duty.  He  was  merry  by  sad 
necessity. 

Happily  for  man,  he  cannot  uniformly  be  miserable.  Nature 
has  her  moments  when  sorrow  is  forgotten.  One  continued 
torturing  train  of  ideas  can  only  be  known  in  madness.  It  is 
madness.  But  Spiffard  became  irritable.  His  health  and 
elastic  strength  declined.  He  refused  the  invitations  of  men 
to  whom  his  talents  recommended  and  would  have  endeared 
him.  Even  Mr.  Littlejohn  was  neglected.  He  continued 
his  attachment  to  the  erring  George  Frederick  Cooke  ;  and 
still  sought  the  company  of  the  gay  young  men  who  associated 
with  the  favourites  of  the  theatre,  and  enjoyed  the  hospitality 
of  the  manager,  whose  flood  of  prosperity  flowed  full  and  strong, 
and  whose  liberality  let  it  pass  as  freely.  Sometimes  Spiffard 
was  urged  into  this  joyous  circle  by  his  wishes  to  save  Cooke: 
sometimes  merely  to  avoid  his  own  domestic  hearth.  That 
which  alone  can  make  the  fireside  blessed,  was  not  there. 


82 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Mystery  in  JVew-Forfc,  and  another  hero. 

"Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never  fearful." 

"The  hand  that  hath  made  you  fair,  hath  made  you  good. ; 

"  Dost  thou  desire  her  foully  for  those  things 
That  make  her  good  ?" 

"  Ruffian,  let  go  that  rude  uncivil  touch  !" 

"I  hold  him  but  a  fool  that  will  endanger 
His  body  for  a  girl  who  loves  him  not." 

"In  these  cases  we  still  have  judgment  here. — Shakspsare. 
"  Auf !  oder  ihr  seyd  verloren." 

"  Es  steht  ihm  an  der  stirn  geschrieben, 
Dass  er  nicht  mag  eine  Seele  lieben. — Goethe. 

"  Away ! — I  do  condemn  my  ears,  that  have 
So  long  attended  thee." — Shakspsare. 

THE  reader  already  knows,  that  although  Zebediah  Spiffard 
is  the  hero  of  this  story,  the  heroine  of  it,  Emma  Portland,  is 
not  destined  to  be  his  bride ;  and  that  there  is  another  hero  ni 
reserve  who  has  superior  claims.  It  is  time  that  he  came  a 
little  more  forward  on  our  stage  ;  but  first  we  must  follow  the 
steps  of  Emma  through  some  scenes  which  tend  to  bring  on 
the  denouement  of  the  drama,  and  bring  together  persons 
heretofore  estranged  from,  or  unknown  to,  each  other. 

It  was  during  SpifFard's  short  sojourn  at  Albany  that  Emma, 
was  subject  to  a  more  severe  trial,  by  the  arts  and  perseverance 
of  the  unknown,  and  hitherto  unseen  persecutor,  who  had  twice 
before  insulted  her  while  in  the  quiet  path  of  her  duty.  The 
last  attack  made  by  this  mysterious  personage,  who  conducted 
his  approach  muffled  in  cloaks  and  shrouded  in  darkness,  had 


Mystery  in  Ncio-York,  and  another  hero.  83 

made  her  resolve  not  to  expose  herself  unacompanied,  in  the 
evening,  to  the  possibility  of  insult  in  the  once  safe  and  peace 
ful  streets  of  New- York.  She  had  related  to  Henry  Johnson 
all  the  circumstances  attending  upon  the  former  attempts,  and 
had  expressed  the  certainty  she  felt,  that  the  person,  though 
unseen,  was,  in  both  instances,  the  same  ;  and  not  one  con 
nected  with  the  theatre.  It  was  in  vain  to  conjecture  who  the 
wretch  was  ;  but  Henry  asked,  and  obtained  the  promise,  that 
her  walks  of  charity  should  not  be  walks  of  darkness. 

She  mentioned  to  him  likewise  the  friendly  behaviour  of  the 
watchman,  and  the  confidence  it  had  inspired.  But  he  ob 
served,  that  it  might  so  happen  that  none  of  the  watch  would 
be  near  at  the  moment  she  most  required  assistance  ;  and  ex 
plained  the  nature  of  their  duty,  by  a  detail  which,  to  one  of 
her  sex,  was  new. 

But  the  enemy  was  on  the  alert ;  and  one  morning,  when 
Emma  was  alone,  the  black  girl  brought  to  her  a  letter  which 
had  been  left  by  a  boy.  It  was  as  follows  : 

Dear  young  lady, 

My  late  husband,  after  being  sick  ever  since  last  Au 
gust,  during  which  time  I  had  to  support  him  and  my  poor 
little  ones,  was  taken  from  me  by  death,  leaving  me  with 
out  any  fuel  for  this  cold  winter  weather,  and  my  clothes  sold 
and  pawned  to  give  him  necessaries  and  bury  him.  I  and  my 
poor  children  are  in  a  state  of  starvation.  I  can't  work,  for 
the  rheumatism  has  taken  away  the  use  of  my  limbs  :  and  for 
the  same  reason  I  can't  go  to  the  Alderman  for  help.  I  send 
this  by  a  neighbour's  child,  humbly  begging  your  advice  and 
assistance,  as  I  know,  from  an  acquaintance  of  an  acquaint 
ance  of  poor  sick  Mrs.  Kent,  that  you  are  always  ready  to 
help  the  unfortunate.  I  hope  to  see  you,  dear  Miss,  as  soon 
as  possible,  at  No.  356  Mott-street. 

Your  most  obedient  servant, 

MARTHA  JENKINS. 

It  was  not  an  extraordinary  circumstance  for  Emma  to  receive 
such  applications  :  yet  the  late  events  made  her  cautious.  It 
had  no  date — but  it  was  written  by  a  woman.  The  first  im 
pulse  was  to  question  the  person  who  brought  it — but  he  was 
gone.  Should  she  go?  Formerly  she  had  never  asked  herself 
the  question  when  called  upon  by  misery.  She  had  gone  in 
search  of  the  children  of  the  poor  for  the  Sunday-schools, 
sometimes  in  company,  but  if  a  companion  did  not  offer,  she 


84  JWystery  in  Jfew-York,  and  another  hero. 

had  sought  the  abode  of  poverty,  too  often  associated  with  vice, 
fearlessly  to  rescue  infancy  from  ignorance.  She  knew  the 
intimate  connection  between  ignorance  and  guilt ;  and  the  ne 
cessity  which  exists  in  society  for  strenuous  exertions  to  make 
the  poor  see,  that  intemperance  and  improvidence  are  the 
causes  of  their  sufferings.  But  now  she  hesitated.  "Should 
she  consult  Henry?  But  the  family  are  starving.  There  can 
be  no  danger  in  making  such  a  visit  by  day-light."  She  de 
termined,  that,  immediately  after  dinner,  it  being  a  very  fine, 
though  cold  day,  she  would  walk  to  Mott-street. 

Mr.  Spiffard  was  at  Albany.  Emma  told  her  cousin 
where  she  was  going,  and  took  the  further  precaution  of  leaving 
a  written  direction  to  the  place,  to  be  given  to  Henry  Johnson 
in  case  he  called  before  she  returned.  Thus  prepared,  and 
properly  equipped  for  a  walk,  she  proceeded  through  Chatham- 
street,  and  up  Mott-street,  passing,  on  level  ground,  over  the 
spot  where  Bunker-hill  (a  conical  eminence  which  once  over 
looked  the  city  and  bay,  so  called  after  the  17th  June,  1775), 
formerly  reared  its  head ;  and  at  length  she  saw  No.  556, 
marked  upon  the  door  of  an  isolated  building,  in  figures  of 
chalk.  The  house  was  of  wood,  and  small ;  such  as  of  late 
have  disappeared  from  even  the  extremities  of  the  city.  No 
thing  indicated  the  crowded  dwelling  of  squalid  misery  that 
she  had  anticipated.  On  knocking  at  the  door  a  female  voice 
desired  her  to  come  in.  Entering,  she  found  herself  in  a  bed 
chamber,  into  which  the  street-door  immediately  opened.  A 
woman  was  seated  on  the  bed.  She  did  not  rise.  The  room 
was]  imperfectly  lighted  by  a  window,  looking  toward  the 
street,  but  partly  closed ;  and  from  a  feAV  chips  blazing  on 
the  hearth,  which  was  otherwise  devoid  of  the  means  of 
comfort.  A  chair,  a  three-legged  stool,  and  an  empty 
cradle,  constituted,  with  the  bed,  the  visible  furniture  of  the 
apartment. 

"  Bless  ye,  my  dear  young  lady,  for  your  condesinshin  to  a 
poor  body  like  me !  but  it's  yourself  that's  always  doing  the 
kind  act.  Would  ye  be  plased  to  take  a  sate  by  the  fire,  for 
sure  it's  cold  to  day,  it  is." 

As  she  said  this  the  woman  arose  with  apparent  difficulty,, 
curtsied,  and  then  sank  again  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Emma 
took  a  seat  and  listened  to  a  detail  of  misfortunes,  mingled 
\vith  apologies,  and  what  was  meant  as  flattery,  in  the  style  of 
the  above  sample.  She  felt  no  sympathy  with  the  speaker. 
Her  features  were  coarse,  her  face  bloated,  the  expression  of 
her  little  white  eyes  sinister,  and  the  tone  of  her  whining  voice 
disgusting. 


Mystery  in  JVeiu-  York,  and  another  hero.  85 

"  But  where  are  your  children?" 

"  Sure  I  wouldn't  have  them  here  when  you  came,  so  I  axt 
a  neighbour  of  my  own  to  kape  them  quiet  up  stairs  for  the 
time." 

Emma  had  come  to  this  place  with  a  reluctance  not  usual 
with  her  when  a  deed  of  charity  invited.  She  wished  to  shorten 
her  visit,  and  asked  such  questions,  rapidly,  as — Why  one  of 
the  children  could  not  have  carried  a  written  application  to  the 
alderman  of  the  ward  1  If  she  had  no  friends  or  acquaintance 
who  would  make  the  application  for  her  ?  All  her  answers  were 
evasive,  mingled  with  winnings  and  tears,  except  that  she  said 
she  had  sent  that  day  to  the  alderman. 

Emma  told  her,  that  if  she  would  give  her  ink  and  paper  she 
would  write  down  the  name  of  the  alderman,  with  a  state  of 
her  case,  which  should  be  conveyed  to  him. 
4<  Where  are  your  materials  for  writing  1" 
44  Sure,  I  have  none  in- — " 

She  hesitated,  looked  at  the  street  door  anxiously,  and 
added, 

44  None  below  stairs — and  my  lameness — " 
The  thought  that  she  had  been  decoyed  hither,  and  that  the 
woman  had  been  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  the  person 
who  had  already  evinced  a  daring  pertinacity  in  his  pursuit, 
struck  her  so  forcibly,  that  she  started  from  her  seat,  saying, 
44  Tell  me  where  to  apply  in  your  behalf:  give  me  the  name 
of  the  alderman — " 

At  this  moment  a  tap  was  heard  at  the  door. 
44  Come  in." 

A  gentleman  entered,  who  immediately  saluted  Mrs.  Jenkins 
by  name,  telling  her,  that  one  of  her  neighbours  had  signified 
her  suspicions  that  illness  had  prevented  her  from  attending  at 
his  office  for  customary  relief." 

He  bowed  to  Emma,  whose  quick  apprehension  discerned 
the  discrepancy  existing  between  these  words  and  the  tale  of 
Mrs.  Jenkins.  With  many  professions  of  thankfulness,  that 
his  honour  should  trouble  himself  to  come  to  her,  she  said  that 
she  was  "  jist  then  spaking  of  his  honour  to  the  dear  young 
lady  whose  character  for  charity  had  made  her  bold  enough  to 
write  to  her,  begging  her  assistance — and  sure  its  a  providince 
that  your  honour's  come,  for  she  was  jist  saying  she  would 
apply  to  your  honour  in  my  behalf." 

The  gentleman  bowed  again  to  Emma,  and  begged  her  to 
be  seated.  The  light  of  the  fire,  now  the  strongest  light  in  the 
room,  flashed  on  his  handsome  face,  as  he  courteously  turned  to 

4* 


86  Mystery  in  New-York,  and  another  hero. 

her ;  and  the  voice,  commanding  stature,  insinuating  demea 
nour,  and  an  indistinct  recognition  of  the  countenance,  all  con 
firmed  her  previous  suspicion.  She  was  strong  and  bold  in 
innocence  ;  but  previous  circumstances  caused  alarm. 

"  You  are  the  alderman  of  the  ward,  as  I  understand,  and  as 
you  now  know  how  much  this  person  wants  assistance,  I  have 
no  further  business  here." 

As  she  spoke  of  the  woman  she  looked  for  her  ;  but  in  vain. 
Her  lameness  had  not  prevented  her  exodus,  and  that  so  adroit 
ly,  that  the  quick  eye  of  Emma  had  not  observed  it.  She  had 
passed  through  a  back  door ;  but  whether  she  had  gone  up 
stairs  or  out  of  the  house  could  only  be  conjectured.  Emma 
was  alone  with  one  she  feared. 

The  stranger,  with  some  degree  of  trepidation,  said,  "  pray 
madam,  be  seated,  Mrs.  Jenkins  has  gone  up  stairs."  The 
voice  was  now  more  decidedly  the  same  that  she  had  twice 
before  heard.  As  the  voice  was  identified,  the  figure  was 
fully  recognised.  For  though,  even  at  their  last  meeting,  he 
was  cloaked,  and  concealed  by  the  darkness  of  Theatre-alley, 
there  was  an  impression  made  that  fully  corresponded  with  the 
person  now  before  her,  who  stood  without  the  incumbrance  or 
disguise  of  a  wrapper,  and  rather  ostentatiously  displaying  a 
fine  and  commanding  form. 

For  a  moment  she  trembled.  She  looked  around  her  for 
the  means  of  escape.  She  was  convinced  that  she  had  been 
betrayed  by  the  vile  woman,  and  of  course  could  expect  no 
succour  from  any  one  within  the  walls.  He  spoke  again,  and 
the  sound  of  his  voice  recalled  her  courage,  for  it  inspired  in 
dignation. 

Indignant  at  the  persevering  persecution  of  this  unprincipled 
wretch,  (who  evidently  could  not  plead  the  mutiny  of"  flaming 
youth"  in  his  excuse,)  her  firmness  returned.  The  courage 
which  nature  had  given  her,  which  education  had  confirmed, 
and  conscious  rectitude  maintained,  now  supported  her.  She 
neither  heard  nor  replied  to  his  words,  but  addressed  herself 
{o  depart.  He,  bowing,  placed  himself  between  her  and  the 
door.  With  a  lofty  step,  and  energetic  motion  of  the  hand,  she 
put  him  aside  and  passed  on.  The  door  was  locked 
and  the  key  removed.  She  afterwards  recollected,  that 
when  she  came  to  the  house  the  key  was  on  the  outside  of  tho 
door. 

"  I  now  see,"  she  said,  firmly,  and  looking  proudly  in  the 
face  of  her  persecutor,  "  I  see  the  whole  of  this  vile  plot,  and 
know  you,  for  the  person  who  twice  before  has  insulted  me. 


Mystery  in  New-York,  and  another  hero.  87 

If  I  could  suppose  that  r.ny  conduct  of  mine  had  encouraged 
you,  it  would  be  the  most  humiliating  thought  of  my  life.  I 
am  not  intimidated  by  the  success  of  your  plan  in  bringing  me 
hither,  or  by  my  apparently  defenceless  situation.  I  have  too 
just  a  sense  of  my  own  powers,  and  of  the  protection  my  coun 
try  affords  me,  to  fear  any  violence  from  you  or  your  vile 
agent." 

"  Violence !  Who  could  think  of  offering  violence  to  such 
beauty? — To  such  angelic  loveliness? — I  have  offers  to  make 
that  you  must  listen  to.  Let  my  love  plead " 

"  You  mistake  the  person  you  address.  Such  language 
only  adds  to  the  contempt  your  actions  have  inspired.  Order 
your  agent  to  open  the  door  before  I  alarm  the  neighbourhood 
and  expose  you  to  shame  and  punishment. 

"  First  hear  me.     I  offer  you " 

"  I  will  not  be  insulted  by  any  offers  from  one  so  des 
picable  as  your  conduct  has  proved  you." 

"  Hear  me,  lovely  girl !  I  have  seen — I  have  followed — " 

"  Hear  me,  sir !  Your  clandestine  followings  mark  your 
own  consciousness  of  base  intentions.  What  have  you  seen 
in  me  that  could  induce  you  to  persecute  me  with  your  detest 
able  doggings  and  followings  ?" 

"  Nothing  could  encourage  me  to  hope  that  I  might  devote 
my  life  and  fortune  to  your  happiness — nothing  certainly  ia 
your  appearance  or  conduct — but — " 

"  Speak  on,  sir." 

"  Your  visits  to  the  private  door  of  the  theatre — your  situa 
tion — "  He  hesitated. 

"  You  inquired  and  heard  that  I  was  an  orphan  and  poor!" 

"  I  saw  you  with — and  apparently  dependent  upon  people 
whose  profession — and  as  the  world  says — but  I  will  not  of 
fend — come  come  !  lovely  creature !  this  is  all  prudery.  I 
can  and  will  place  you  above  dependence  even  upon  my 
passion." 

"  You  are  probably  a  traveller,  and  forget  that  you  are  not 
in  Paris.  You  have  heard  and  known  that  some  opera- 
dancers,  and  even  others  connected  with  the  stage,  have  fallen 
from  virtue;  and  therefore  think  all  base.  You  forget  the 
many  that  never  entered  a  theatre,  or  only  as  auditors,  who 
sink  to  the  level  of  the  most  criminal :  and  you  forget  the  many 
models  of  private  worth  who  have  ministered  to  public  taste 
and  instruction  from  the  stage.  Order  the  door  to  be  opened, 
sir,  or  produce  the  key." 

"  Hear  me — you  mistake  me — I  am  above  the  prejudices 


88  Mystery  in  JV«e-  For£,  and  another  hero. 

which  would  censure  that  independence  of  conduct  in  a  lady — 
that  high-mindedness  which  throws  off  the  fetters  hypocrisy 
would  place  upon  your  sex.  I  am  a  man  of  the  world ;  and 
we  all  know  that  those  who  break  through  a  certain  line  of 
distinction,  which  public  opinion  has  placed  between  those 
who  expose  their  persons  on  the  stage  and  bow  their  thanks 
for  vulgar  plaudits,  and  the  more  reserved  portion  of  society, 
are  above  that  false  delicacy — " 

"  Wretched  man ! — But  I  am  wrong  to  waste  words  with 
one  to  whom  years  have  not  brought  wisdom.  Open  the  door !" 

"  Not  until  you  have  listened  to  my  love." 

This  interchange  of  words  had  lasted  so  long,  that,  by  de 
grees,  Emma  was  convinced  that  she  had  seen  this  man  under 
other  circumstances  than  those  I  have  witnessed.  The  imper 
fect  recognition  shocked  her,  but  it  added  to  the  indignation 
she  felt,  a  sensation  approaching  to  horror.  She  interrupted 
him  in  a  tone  he  little  expected  from  one  so  young  and 
delicate. 

"  Despicable  man !  You  saw  me  the  companion  of  my  na 
tural  guardians,  the  only  relations  providence  has  left  me;  but 
I  now  feel  assured  that  you  saw  me  elsewhere.  I  now  recog 
nise  you." 

"  I  never  was  in  your  company." 

"  Yes — I  fully  recognise  you,  though  your  name  and  situa 
tion  in  life  are  unknown  to  me — and  may  remain  so.  You 
saw  me,  a  servant  in  the  temple  of  the  most  high  God — a 
leacher  of  the  poor  and  ignorant — a  worshipper  at  that  altar, 
where  I  must  now  conclude  that  you  bowed  in  mockery,  or  as 
the  agent  of  that  power  in  whose  service  you  would  enlist  me. 
I  have  heard  and  read  of  such  base  depravity,  but  you  have, 
for  the  first  time,  presented  to  me  the  perfect  image  of  the 
most  loathsome  profligacy  covered  by  the  mask  of  hypocrisy!'' 

"  You  have  mistaken  me  for  another." 

"  No.  I  am  certain :  but  I  have  no  wish  to  expose  you. 
Let  me  go — and  when  you  can — repent." 

**  You  must  at  least  promise — " 

"  I  hear  no  more,  sir!" 

She  sprung  towards  the'^window,  which  she  had  observed, 
on  entering  the  house,  to  be  near  the  unpaved  street.  He 
threw  his  arms  around  her  and  prevented  her  seizing  the  win 
dow-sash  :  at  the  same  time  he  drew  her  from  the  place  she 
had  hoped  to  escape  from,  and  placed  himself  next  the  street. 
He  encircled  her  for  a  moment  in  his  arms  ;  but,  with  a  force 
which  youth  and  exercise  had  given,  and  with  an  effort  which 


Mystery  in  JYew- ForAr,  and  another  hero.  89 

indignation  made  irresistible,  she  burst  from  him,  leaving  her 
cloak,  which  she  had  not  taken  off'  since  entering,  in  his  hands. 
In  the  struggle  her  bonnet  fell  off,  and  with  it  the  comb  which 
confined  her  mass  of  tresses,  fell  on  the  floor.  The  same  ef 
fort  which  released  her,  east  him  towards  the  door,  and  she 
gained  the  window,  threw  up  the  sash,  and  cried  for  help.  As 
she  cast  a  look  out,  the  most  welcome  form  presented  itself 
that  could  have  prevented  her  leap  from  the  window  ;  and, 
clasping  her  hands,  she  exclaimed,  "  Henry  !" 

To  force  the  door  was  not  a  business  requiring  much  time 
with  the  athletic  and  excited  youth,  who  heard  the  cry  of  dis 
tress  from  one  whose  voice  at  all  times  reached  his  heart  with 
the  lightning's  rapidity,  who  saw  that  her  face,  pale  with  terror, 
after  losing  the  flush  which  indignation  and  exercise  had 
caused — that  countenance,  wild  and  surrounded  by  disheveled 
locks,  on  which  he  delighted  to  trace  the  mild  emotions  of  be 
nevolence  and  love.  The  lock  gave  way  before  him — he 
rushed  in — Emma  was  in  his  arms.  The  wretch,  who  had 
caused  this  alarm,  finding  himself  baffled  and  exposed  to  de 
tection,  retreated  by  the  open  window,  and  was  not  even  seen 
by  young  Johnson. 

Henry  had  called,  as  usual,  to  visit  his  betrothed,  after 
leaving  the  counting-house  in  which  his  days  were  passed : 
he  received  the  paper  left  by  Emma,  and,  although  not 
alarmed,  as  evening  approached,  he  determined  to  follow  the 
direction,  expecting  to  meet  her.  Having  passed  the  populous 
and  well-built  part  of  the  street,  he  began  to  fear  that  some 
thing  was  wrong,  and  hastened  forward,  anxiously  looking  for 
No.  356.  He  came  as  opportunely  as  hero  of  romance,  or 
protecting  deity  in  an  epic,  could  possibly  have  done,  and  re 
ceived  explanations  as  extraordinary  as  the  appearance  of 
Emma  was  alarming. 

Her  cloak,  bonnet,  and  comb,  strewed  the  floor  ;  and  near 
them  lay  a  man's  hat. 

Her  hair  covering  her  neck,  shoulders,  and  almost  hiding 
her  face,  streamed  in  wild  disorder  over  her  deliverer's  arms  as 
he  pressed  her  to  his  bosom.  It  was  not  until  he  had  placed 
her  on  the  only  chair  in  the  room,  that  he  saw  the  man's  hat, 
and  gained,  by  a  hurried  statement,  some  confused  knowledge 
of  the  insult  that  had  been  offered. 

"  His  name  may  be  written  in  his  hat,"  he  exclaimed ;  but, 
on  examining  it  by  the  faint  fire-light,  only  the  letter  W.  was 
found. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  Henry!  'Tis  better  we  should  not  know." 


90  Mystery  in  Neiv-York,  and  another  hero. 

''  But  I  will  know!  Where  is  the  woman?  I  will  discover 
the  scoundrel  by  means  of  his  vile  agent." 

Emma  would  have  persuaded  Henry  to  depart  instantly, 
but  he  was  irritated,  and  insisted  on  seeing  the  woman  who 
had  decoyed  her  to  the  place.  She  came  down  stairs  reluct 
antly  at  his  call ;  but  nothing  could  be  elicited  from  her. 
She  confessed  her  participation  in  the  plot,  having  been  per 
suaded  by  the  gentleman  that  he  meant  no  harm.  She  de 
clared,  and  probably  with  great  truth,  that  she  did  not  know 
his  name.  She  could  not  read,  and  did  not  know  the  contents 
of  the  letter,  only  as  her  employer  had  informed  her.  When 
questioned  respecting  her  children,  she  said  she  had  but  one  ; 
an  infant ;  and  she  had  been  directed  to  leave  that  with  a 
neighbour.  Her  husband,  Patrick  Murphy,  had  left  her  and 
gone  to  Boston. 

"  Then  Jenkins  is  not  your  name  ?" 

"  No,  sure,  the  truth  is,  my  name's  Molly  Murphy  ever 
since  I  was  married.  The  gentleman  called  me  Jenkins  only 
for  a  joke,  sure." 

As  no  trace  of  this  mysterious  persecutor  was  discovered, 
Henry  yielded  to  Emma's  entreaties  ;  who,  having  reduced 
her  disordered  dress  to  its  usual  neat  and  simple  r^pearance, 
departed  in  safety  with  her  protector.  On  the  way  home  she 
promised  him  never  to  go  on  an  errand  of  charity  among  stran 
gers  without  a  companion. 

She  promised  to  be  guided  by  him.  She  knew  that  he  was 
entitled  to  her  confidence,  and  looked  upon  herself  as  his  bride 
elect.  In  her  communion  with  this,  the  chosen  of  her  affec 
tions,  she  might  have  said  with  the  poet — 

'• Hence,  bashful  cunning! 

And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence.", 

She  henceforward  looked  upon  Henry  Johnson  as  the  part 
ner  who  should  add  his  strength  to  the  suppoit  which  her  own 
intelligence,  virtues,  and  purity  impaited. 


91 

CHAPTER  X. 

Jl  death,  and  a  snow  storm. 

c:  If  men  were  to  act  and  think  just  as  their  ancestors  have  acted  and 
thought  before  them,  human  nature  would  be  merely  idolatry  and  slavery." 

English  translation  of  De  Lamartine. 

"I  hope  it  will  not  be  conceived,  that  it  is  my  wish  to  hold  the  unhappy 
people,  who  are  the  subject  of  this  letter,  in  slavery.  I  can  only  say,  tha't 
there  is  not  a  man  living,  who  wishes  more  sincerely  than  I  do,  to  see  a 
plan  adopted  for  the  abolition  of  it;  but  there  is  only  one  proper  and  effec 
tual  mode  by  which  it  can  be  accomplished  ;  and  that  is,  by  legislative  au 
thority ;  and  this,  as  far  as  my  suffrage  will  go,  shall  never  be  wanting." 

jTT (ishingto)i . 

"  You  have  among  you  many  a  purchased  slave, 
Which,  like  your  asses,  and'  your  dogs,  and  mules, 
You  use  in  abject  and  in  slavish  parts, 
Because  you  bought  them." — Shakspeare. 

"I  cannot  see  how  Venetians  or  Englishmen,  while  they  practise  the 
purchase  and  sale  of  slaves,  can  much  enforce  or  demand  the  law  of  '  Do 
ing  to  others  as  we  would  have  that  they  should  do  to  «s.'  " — Johnson.. 

"To  set  the  slaves  afloat  at  once,  would,  I  really  believe,  be  productive 
of  much  inconvenience  and  mischief;  but  by  degrees  it  certainly  might, 
and  assuredly  ought  to  be  affected;  and  that,  too,  by  legislative  autho 
rity." —  Washington. 

"I  was  born  as  free  as  they, 
And  what  I  think,  that  will  I  say." — Souther. 

"After  life's  fitful  fever  they  sleep  well. 
Nor  steel,  nor  poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing 
Can  touch  them  further." — Shaksi.eare. 

"I  never  mean,  unless  some  particular  circumstances  should  compel  mo 
to  it,  to  possess  another  slave  by  purchase,  it  being  among  my  first  wishes 
to  see  some  plan  adopted,  by  which  slavery  in  this  country  may  be  abo 
lished  by  law."- — Washington. 

"  JusL  Death  !  kind  umpire  of  man's  miseries." 
"  Our  little  life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

"  But  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  droanis  may  chance 
To  come,  must  give  us  pause." — Shukxpeare. 

SOME  weeks  had  flown  on  time's  wings,  when  another  inci 
dent  occurred,  even  more  nearly  affecting  the  fortunes  of 
Emma  Portland  than  that  last  recorded. 


92  A  death,  and  a  snow  storm. 

My  readers  must  excuse  me  if  I  again  introduce  them  to  the 
dingy  company  of  John  Kent  and  his  wife  :  it  is  necessary 
that  we  follow  our  heroine,  even  though  our  motives  for  so  do 
ing  should  not  be  as  pure  as  hers  were. 

The  snows  of  winter  had  for  some  time  covered  the  wide 
fields  of  the  agriculturist,  cherishing  the  root  and  the  seed  of 
succeeding  harvests.  The  streets  of  our  city  were  ringing 
with  bells,  as  the  gay  and  the  beautiful  enjoyed  the  rapid  mo 
tion  of  the  sleigh,  while  silks,  velvets,  and  feathers,  of  every  co 
lour,  glittered  and  danced  in  the  sunbeams;  or,  as  the  thoughtless 
and  dissipated  flew  shouting  to  the  nightly  rendezvous  of  in 
temperance. 

Again  the  north-east  wind  whirled  the  dark  clouds  over  us, 
and  the  snow  had  fallen  all  day  without  intermission,  when 
honest  old  Kent  appeared  at  Mrs.  Epsom's,  soliciting  Emma 
Portland  to  give  the  consolation  of  her  beloved  presence  (ohis 
wife,  whose  sufferings  appeared  to  be  drawing  to  a  close.  He 
proposed  sending  a  hackney-coach  for  her,  in  the  evening  ;  but 
this  she  positively  refused.  She  knew  that  his  circumstances 
did  not  warrant  the  expense.  She  promised  to  come  as  soon 
as  her  duties  at  home  permitted. 

When  the  evening  arrived,  she  was  longer  detained  by  offices 
of  kindness  and  assistance,  performed  for  her  aunt  and  cousin, 
than  she  had  anticipated  ;  but  after  they  had  gone,  with  Mr. 
Spiffard,  to  their  duties  at  the  theatre,  she  prepared  to  encoun 
ter  the  storm.  Taking  Rachel,  the  black  servant,  with  her  to- 
Kent's  door,  she  again  entered  the  abode  of  sickness,  after 
charging  the  faithful  girl  to  return  quickly  homej  and  be  vigi 
lant  in  her  sphere  of  usefulness. 

Kent  having  been  excused  from  his  duties  at  the  theatre,  in 
consequence  of  his  wife's  extreme  illness,  was  at  home; ;  and 
the  reader  may  imagine  the  same  picture,  once  before  present 
ed  to  him  ;  the  same  room,  the  same  table,  lamp,  book,  and 
figures  ;  but,  at  tfne  time  we  draw  the  curtain,  the  book  was 
closed  ;  the  invalid  had  recovered  temporary  strength,  appear 
ing  unusually  animated,  and  the  parties  were  engaged  ear 
nestly  in  conversation.  It  was  that  strength  and  animation 
which  not  unfrequently  precedes  death. 

The  aged  man  and  dying  woman  are  the  same  we  have  al 
ready  introduced  to  the  reader.  The  same  honest  old  Kent, 
as  faithful  a  servant  to  his  employers,  as  his  namesake  was  to 
the  improvident  and  misjudging  Lear. 

His  wife,  though  not  a  white,  was  an  interesting  figure, 
even  in  the  eyes  of  the  most  fastidious.  Pale  and  emaciated. 


A  death,  and  a  snow  storm.  93 

but  with  an  expression  of  resignation.  Always  neat  in  her  per 
sonal  appearance,  beyond  that  cleanliness  which  might  have 
been  expected  from  her  condition,  there  was  in  everything 
about  her  arid  her  humble  dwelling,  the  evidences  of  economy 
and  propriety. 

The  old  property-man  was  occupied,  in  compliance  with 
Emma's  request,  with  that,  which  is  always  pleasant  to  age, 
recounting  the  eventful  circumstances  of  his  early  life. 

44  I  was  born,  as  I  have  told  you,  Miss  Emmy,  in  this  city, 
when  it  was  a  poor  little  place  compared  to  what  it  is  now ; 
when  the  park,  now  level  as  a  floor,  and  rilled  with  trees,  was 
called  the  fields  ;  no  houses,  but  some  mean  wooden  ones, 
around  it ;  and  neither  tree  nor  green  thing  to  be  seen.  The 
people  were  almost  as  much  Dutch  as  English.  My  master 
took  me  with  him  to  Canada,  when  the  rebels,  as  they  called 
them  then,  were  mobbing  the  torics — for  he  was  an  English 
man  and  a  loyalist." 

u  He  was  a  good  master  to  you — was  he  not?"       ' 

"  Why  do  you  think  so,  Miss  T' 

"  Because  you  had  a  good  education  for — for — " 

4<  A  slave,  Miss.  You  did  not  like  to  speak  the  word.  Yes, 
I  was  a  slave.  Yes,  Miss*  he  was  a  good  master  ;  but  he  was 
a  master." 

4<  He  had  you  taught  a  trade,  too." 

"  That  makes  the  slave  a  more  valuable  property.  He  can 
ram  more  wages  for  his  master.  Having  a  trade,  he  will 
bring  a  higher  price  if  set  up  at  auction,  to  be  knocked  down 
to  the  highest  bidder,  like  a  horse  or  a  dog." 

"  But  you  were  not  so  sold?" 

44  No,  Miss  ;  but  I  saw  others  so  bought  and  sold ;  and  I 
knew  that  it  might  be  my  case.  I  knew  that  I  was  a  some 
thing  that  must  go  one  way  when  I  wished  to  go  another.  No 
matter  !  It's  past !  No  matter  !" 

He  paused,  as  if  looking  back  to  long  gone  days.  Emma 
said  soothingly,  '4  Such  is  the  fate  of  all ;  and  probably  it  is 
best  for  us  that  it  is  so.  My  dear  mother  taught  me,  very 
early  in  life,  that  it  was  better  her  will  should  govern  me  than 
my  own.  I  was  taught  this  so  very  early  in  my  infancy,  that 
I  cannot  remember  the  arguments  she  used  ;  but  I  was  con 
vinced.  Probably  my  conviction  was  the  result  of  her  univer 
sally  tender  behaviour — her  protecting  care  and  love — her 
strict  adherence  to  truth.  She  told  me  that  her  commands 
were  for  my  good  ;  and  I  believed  her." 

44  Ah,  there  it  is,  Miss.    There's  the  difference.     The  slave 


94  Jl  death,  and  a  snow  stow. 

sees  that  the  commands  of  the  master  are  not  even  pretended 
to  be  for  any  other  than  the  masters  pleasure.  The  slave, 
even  if  he  feels  that  he  has  more  strength  and  more  disposition 
to  do  good  than  his  master,  sees  that  he  is  treated  as  an  infe 
rior  being.  He  labours,  at  the  will  of  another,  knowing  that 
his  own  good  is  not  intended  ;  and  that  he  must  not  seek  his 
own  good,  if,  by  so  doing,  he  interferes  with  his  master's  plea 
sures.  He  receives  food  as  it  is  given  to  the  horse,  the  ox, 
and  the  ass,  to  repair  the  strength  that  labour  for  his  master 
has  exhausted.  Like  the  horse  and  the  ass  he  is  subjected  to 
blows  ;  and  like  them  he  is  transferred  to  another  master  and 
another  country,  when  his  master  wants  money  to  supply  his 
wine-cellar,  or  to  pay  his  losses  at  the  gaming-table.  The 
slave  cannot  think  that  to  be  forced  from  his  wife  and  children 
is  for  his  good.  The  child  of  a  good  parent  may  think  and 
feel  that  all  is  intended  for  his  good  ;  but  not  the  man  of  ma 
ture  age,  controlled  by  the  will  of  one,  perhaps  neither  wiser 
nor  better  than  himself." 

"  You  state  an  extreme  case.  Few  masters  would  separate 
husband  from  wife." 

"  I  am  sorry,  Miss,  that  we  happened  to  talk  on  this  sub 
ject.  I  have  known  masters  who  inherited  slaves,  and  who 
acted  conscientiously  for  their  good.  My  master  was  one. 
He  did  better  for  me,  than  I  probably  could  have  done  for 
myself." 

"  His  superior  knowledge  enabled  him  t©  do  so." 

"True.  Miss.  I  had  no  right  to  expect  more  from  him  than 
he  did.  He  had  me  taught  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic — 
gave  me  a  trade — and  though  that  is  often  done  by  slave-hold 
ers  for  their  own  interest,  I  did  not  mean  to  say 'that  my  mas 
ter  acted  from  that  motive.  That  he  had  me  taught  to  rea-i 
was  my  greatest  blessing  !  You  know,  Miss  Emmy,  that  many 
slave-holders  are  afraid  to  let  their  slaves  read,  even  the  word 
of  God." 

"  It  is  the  comment  of  the  slave-holder  upon  his  own  prac 
tice,  and  proves  more  than  all  Clarkson  or  Wilberforce  has 
said.  I  am  glad  to  leave  Mrs.  Kent  so  much  better ;  and 
now,  Mr.  Kent,  if  you  will  prepare  the  lantern  you  shall  ac 
company  me  home — whether  you  will  or  no,"  she  said 
smiling. 

"  God  bless  you,  Miss !  I  wish  all  the  world  was  as  will 
ing  to  serve  you  as  I  am." 

"  Before  you  go,  Miss  Emma,"  said  the  sick  woman,  u  if 
it  is  not  too  late,  please  to  read  one  chapter  in  the  New  Tes 
tament." 


Jl  death,  and  a  snow  storm.  95 

"  I  will.     What  chapter  shall  it  be  ?" 

"  You  know  best  what  will  suit." 

Emma  opened  the  book.  She  read  feelingly.  Kent  sat 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  and  his  hands  clasped,  and 
resting  on  his  knees, 

As  the  reading  progressed,  the  sick  woman  sighed,  and  oc 
casionally  sobbed  ;  but  not  so  as  to  occasion  interruption. 
After  a  time,  Emma  heard  a  groan ;  but  considering  it  onlv 
as  the  effect  of  the  passage  she  was  reading,  from  the  book  of 
wisdom,  on  the  feelings  of  the  patient,  prepared  by  long  suffer 
ing  to  experience  a  more  powerful  effect  than  the  same  words 
would  produce  on  the  strong  and  happy,  she  continued  her 
reading  until  she  had  finished  the  chapter.  She  then  shut  the 
book,  and  turned  her  eyes  to  the  bed,  preparatory  to  taking 
leave.  What  was  her  surprise  on  perceiving  that  she  had  been 
reading  to  the  dead  !  The  woman  was  a  corpse. 

Accustomed  as  she  was  to  self-command,  she  could  not  re 
press  a  cry  ;  and  not  until  then  did  the  old  man  see  that  the 
companion  of  years  passed  in  slavery  and  in  freedom,  had  left 
him  childless  and  alone,  for  the  remaining  portion  of  his  life. 

Emma  recovered  her  self-possession  before  the  man  ;  who 
was  so  utterly  bewildered,  at  an  event  as  unexpected  at  the 
moment  as  if  the  woman  had  been  in  health,  that  he  could  do 
nought  but  utter  broken  and  unintelligible  exclamations. 
Emma  directed  him  to  run  for  the  nearest  physician. 

"  Yes  !  yes  !"  he  exclaimed.     "  Is  there  any  hope  ?" 

"  Run  quickly!  It  may  be.  But  all  will  depend  upon  your 
speed." 

The  old  man  hastened  for  aid.  Emma  raised  the  head  of 
the  corpse,  after  feeling  in  vain  for  pulsation.  She  was  soon 
convinced  that  life  had  fled.  The  interval  had  been  so  long 
between  the  groan,  which  had  passed  almost  unheeded,  and 
the  conclusion  of  the  lecture,  that  the  body  which  then  part 
ed  with  its  last  breath,  had  become  nearly  stark  and  cold. 

Long  appeared  the  time  before  the  bereaved  old  man  re 
turned.  Emma  had  no  fears  for  herself,  but  thought  that  her 
aunt  and  cousin  would  be  made  uneasy  by  her  long  protracted 
visit.  The  wind  howled  without,  and  the  snow,  mingled  with 
hail,  beat  upon  the  windows  and  the  roof. 

Emma  Portland  prayed. 

At  length  Kent  returned,  and  brought  with  him  Doctor  Mc 
Lean,  the  kind  physician  who  had  long  administered  to  the 
comfort  of  the  patient ;  but  who  immediately  ascertained  that 
his  skill  was  of  no  avail. 


96  A  death,  and  a  snow  sfortw. 

Some  females  living  in  the  house  were  brought  to  the  apart 
ment  by  the  unusual  stir  this  catastrophe  had  occasioned ;  and, 
leaving  the  corpse  to  their  care,  Emma,  (unnoticed  by  Kent 
or  the  doctor),  stole  out  of  the  room,  taking  with  her  the  man 
tle  and  hood  which  sheltered  her  from  the  storm  when  she 
came.  As  she  descended  the  stairs,  she  wrapped  herself  in 
these  convenient  garments,  and  trusted  herself  again  to  the 
well-known  pavement,  which  she  had  thought  not  again  to  ven 
ture  on,  unaccompanied. 

The  night  was  cold,  and  the  snow  fell  thick.  She  hastened 
on,  anxious  to  reach  home  and  quiet  the  fears  of  her  expecting 
relatives.  It  was  so  late,  and  so  inclement,  that  the  streets 
were  abandoned.  This  circumstance  rather  assured  than  dis 
couraged  the  courageous  girl ;  and  well  protected  by  her  long 
and  warm  mantle,  and  close  well-padded  hood,  drawn  over 
head  and  face,  she  speeded  on,  congratulating  herself  that  none 
of  the  usual  frequenters  of  Theatre-alley  were  seen  or  heard. 
The  entertainments  of  the  play-house  were  over,  and  the 
crowds  who  attended  them,  or  assisted  in  them,  were  dis 
persed. 

She  had  left  the  theatre  and  its  alley  behind,  and  met,  on 
turning  the  first  corner,  the  full  force  of  the  piercing  blast, 
drifting  the  snow  before  it,  and  threatening  to  overwhelm  her  ; 
but,  shrinking  from  the  gale  for  a  moment,  she  recovered  her 
strength,  and  encouraged  by  the  knowledge,  that  on  her  way 
home  she  should  pass  the  door  of  one  to  whom  she  had  made 
frequent  visits  of  charity  (in  its  highest  sense)  and  love,  she 
pressed  on.  Arrived  opposite  to  the  door  of  Mrs.  Johnson, 
she  hesitated  whether  she  should  not  stop,  and  ask  a  compan 
ion  for  the  remainder  of  the  way.  But  the  very  lateness  of  the 
hour  determined  her  not  to  disturb  the  repose  of  one  whom 
she  knew  to  be  in  a  state  little  fitted  to  bear  a  night  alarm. 
"  I  shall  only  be  later  in  getting  home ;  and  I  may  injure 
her.''  So  she  thought,  and  on  she  passed,  opposing  her  deli 
cate  form  to  the  furious  blast,  but  speeding  with  the  untiring 
elasticity  of  youth.  On!  on! 


97 


CHAPTER  XT. 


Effects  of  intemperance.     Jl  scene  from  real  life. 

r;  Vou  shall  make  no  noise  in  the  streets ;  for,  for  the  watch  to  babbU 
and  talk,  is  most  tolerable,  and  not  to  be  endured." 

'•  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk ;  we  know  what  belongs  to  a  watch." 
{:  Why  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  mosi  quiet  watchman." 


perseverance,  my  lord, 


Keeps  honour  bright.  *  *  Keep  then  the  path  : 

*  *  *  If  you  give  way, 

Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forthright, 

Like  to  an  enter' d  tide,  they  all  rush  "by, 

And  leave  you  hindermost ; 

Or  like  a  gallant  horse,  fallen  in  first  rank, 

Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject  rear, 

O'er-run  and  trampled  on." 

' Then  was  I  as  a  tree, 

Whose  boughs  did  bend  with  fruit :  but  in  one  night, 
A  storm  *  * 

Shook  down  my  mellow  hangings,  nay,  my  leaves, 
And  left  me  bare  to  weather." 


-how  like  a  swine  he  lies ! 


Grim  death,  how  foul  and  loathsome  is  thine  image!" 

Shckspeare. 

•      (;She  as  a  veil,  down  to  her  slender  waist 
Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore, 
Dishevel' d,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  wav'd, 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils  " — Milton. 

"  Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night, 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear." — Shakspeart. 

EMMA  PORTLAND  passed  the  house  of  her  beloved  sick 
friend,  Mrs.  Johnson  ;  but  had  not  gone  more  than  half  a 
square  in  the  direction  of  Broadway,  which  she  had  to  cross, 
when  she  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  prostrate,  and  white  with  the 
falling  snow,  directly  in  her  pathway.  This  object,  owing  to 
the  night  and  the  blinding  effect  of  the  snow,  was  not  seen 
until  she  was  within  a  few  steps  of  him. 


98  Effects  of  intemperance. 

The  consciousness  of  her  unprotected  situation  now  flashed 
upon  her  ;  she  feared  that  she  had  rashly  exposed  herself  to 
insult  or  danger ;  for  the  thought  of  the  person  being  dead,  or 
one  perishing  in  the  streets  of  a  populous  and  well-guarded 
city,  did  not,  at  first,  occur  to  her  as  a  possibility.  She  started 
back  ;  and  the  first  impulse  was  to  cross  the  narrow  street, 
and  thus  avoid  notice  or  danger.  She  however  observed  that 
the  figure  was  motionless.  The  thought  of  a  person  having 
fallen  in  a  fit,  and  left  to  perish  by  cold,  occurred.  She  had 
been  reading  but  a  few  hours  before,  among  other  lessons  of 
humanity  and  love,  the  parable  of  the  good  Samaritan.  That 
beautiful  fiction  by  which  its  great  author  inculcated  truth — the 
love  and  duty  due  to  a  neighbour — and  that  the  word  neigh 
bour  meant,  one  of  the  human  race,  though  of  an  adverse  na 
tion  and  religion. 

Such  lessons  were  not  lost  on  Emma  Portland.  As  she 
turned  to  cross  to  the  other  side  of  the  street,  the  Levite  who 
passed  by  and  avoided  the  abused  and  wounded  traveller,1  ar 
rested  her  steps.  She  advanced  towards  the  object  which  had 
alarmed  her,  and  with  feelings  of  mingled  terror  and  compas 
sion  gazed  on  a  being  so  pitiably  exposed  to  suffering  and 
death. 

A  lamp-post  stood  near ;  but  the  chilled  oil  scarcely  served 
the  purpose  of  feeding  the  wick  of  the  lamp  ;  and  it  was  only 
a  fitful  and  glimmering  light  which  was  shed  through  the  flakes 
of  falling  snow  on  the  surrounding  objects.  She  advanced 
nearer,  and  the  light  flickered  and  expired.  She  had  stooped 
over  the  object,  that  now  interested  her,  at  the  moment  the  ex 
hausted  lamp  shot  forth  a  feeble  and  a  last  ray.  She  saw  that 
the  thin,  dishevelled  grey  hair  of  an  aged  man,  was  the  only 
covering  of  the  head,  which  lay  pillowed  on  a  pile  of  snow  that 
had  been  shoveled  from  the  side-walk.  The  light  of  the  lamp 
was  now  extinguished ;  but  amid  snow  there  is  no  perfect 
darkness. 

Emma  had  too  much  of  the  good  Samaritan  in  her  compo 
sition  to  think  a  second  time  of  passing  on  the  other  side  of  the 
way.  She  saw,  that  this  poor  creature,  instead  of  being  an 
object  to  create  alarm,  was  a  subject  for  compassion  and  ac 
tive  assistance.  Her  own  lonely  and  unprotected  situation 
was  forgotten.  She  again  stooped  over  the  prostrate  and  fallen. 
man — fallen  indeed  ! — to  ascertain  whether  he  was  living  or 
dead.  She  saw  by  his  colour  and  breathing  that  life  was  not 
extinct — that  it  was  a  "foul  and  loathsome"  image  of  death 


Jl  scene  from  real  life.  99 

which  she  beheld — and  she  recognised  the  features  of  George 
Frederick  Cooke  ! 

Involuntarily  she  uttered  a  faint  shriek — rather  of  surprise 
and  horror  than  terror  ;  but,  with  characteristic  self-possession,, 
she  the  next  instant  bent  the  powers  of  her  well-regulated 
mind  in  search  of  the  readiest  mode  by  which  to  overcome 
difficulties  and  procure  relief  to  the  sufferer,  apparently  uncon 
scious,  though  so  eminently  in  peril  of  immediate  death. 

The  question  for  her  to  determine  was,  where  could  assis 
tance  for  the  unhappy  man  be  obtained  most  promptly  1  She 
thought  of  Kent's ;  but  it  \vas  distant,  and  he  was  not  in  a 
state  of  mind  or  body — old,  worn  down,  and  afflicted — to  bear 
the  helpless  man  so  far.  Mrs.  Johnson  and  Henry  occurred 
to  her — but  she  shrunk  from  alarming  her,  and  thought  more 
than  one  man  necessary  to  carry  the  inert — perhaps  dying — 
body.  She  recollected  the  City-Hall,  and  knew  that  it  was  not 
far  off,  and  afforded  ample  aid.  She  had  heard  that  the  central 
city- watch-house  was  there,  and  of  course  men  ready,  without 
loss  of  time,  to  fly  to  the  aid  of  the  distressed.  She  had  often 
heard  the  sonorous  notes  of  "  All's  well"  wafted  through  the 
trees  of  the  park,  and  echoed  by  the  surrounding  buildings. 
Thought  is  more  rapid  than  the  pen  or  even  the  eye  :  these 
thoughts  occupied  but  a  moment,  and  the  course  to  be  pursued 
was  resolved  upon. 

"  I  will  there  seek  assistance — there  I  am  sure  to  find  and 
obtain  it  without  delay."  She  was  unconscious  of  wind  or 
snow,  and  exercise  supplied  heat  to  counteract  the  chilling- 
blasts.  "  I  am  rushing  among  strange  and  coarse  men  ;  but 
my  sex  must  be  respected.  I  am  doing  my  duty ;  I  shall  soon 
be  there ;  I  may  save  this  unfortunate  gentleman !"  Such  were 
the  replies  that  quieted  her  fears. 

At  first  she  almost  ran,  in  her  impatience  to  procure  suc 
cour  ;  but  the  snow  impeded  her  feet,  and  she  found  her  breath 
failing.  She  stopped.  The  picture  of  a  watch-house  such  as 
she  had  seen  described  in  books,  occurred  to  her,  and  appear 
ed  appalling.  She  remembered  the  figures  she  had  sometimes 
passed  at  night  in  the  streets,  covered  with  rough  garments,  arm 
ed  with  bludgeons,  and  made  conspicuous  by  helmet-like  hats. 
She  had  seen  them  gliding  silently  along  like  beings  of  another 
world,  or  those  startling  things,  creatures  of  darkness,  who  never 
appear  by  day.  Her  heart  beat  quick,  and  her  courage  began  to 
fail.  "  Heavenly  father !"  she  ejaculated,  "strengthen  my  pur 
pose  if  it  is  right!"  Shefeltthat  it  wasright,  and  she  was  strength 
ened.  The  image  of  the  old  man  whom  she  had  known  so 


100  Effects  of  intemperance. 

kind  and  gentle  in  private  life,  was  present  to  her  mind  ;  his 
life  depended  upon  her  exertion.  She  quickened  her  pace. 
Her  impatience  increased  when  she  reached  the  park  and  saw 
the  building  before  her  which  promised  relief ;  she  almost  ran,  in 
despite  of  impediment,  as  she  passed  along  by  the  palings  on 
the  west  side  of  the  enclosure  ;  she  opened  the  gate  nearest  the 
hall,  and  glided  along  in  front  of  the  bridewell.  She  saw  a  light 
glimmering  from  a  cellar-like  passage ;  the  entrance  was  by  a 
few  steps,  and  it  appeared  to  lead,  like  a  long  arch-way,  under 
the  massive  edifice.  She  approached,  and  saw  that  the  vault- 
like  place  was  lighted  by  a  solitary  lamp,  suspended  from  (he 
low-arched  roof.  Before  she  could  descend  the  steps  to  this 
subterraneous  abode  she  had  another  struggle  with  her  fears. 
She  stopped  to  listen,  as  her  foot  touched  the  second  step. 
She  heard  a  confused  murmuring  sound,  and  occasionally  a 
hoarse,  loud  voice,  grating  and  discordant.  All  was  new — all 
was  terrific  to  the  affrighted  maiden.  The  light  from  the  lamp 
showed  her  what  at  first  was  an  apparently  interminable  gloomy 
passage  of  dark  massive  stone-work,  crossed  by  gates  of  iron 
gratings.  She  again  heard  a  noise  of  human  voices,  which 
she  perceived  came  from  a  lateral  passage,  leading  to  the  left. 
That  way  she  must  seek  for  aid.  She  descended  the  stone 
stairs,  and  stood  (again  hesitating)  on  the  broad  flagging  of  the 
floor ;  from  whence,  looking  forward,  she  saw,  through  the 
iron  bars,  a  distant  pale  light,  which  she  knew,  after  a  mo 
ment's  reflection,  must  proceed  from  an  opening  at  the  other 
end  of  the  building,  similar  to  that  she  had  entered,  made  visi 
ble  by  the  snow  beyond. 

She  heard  a  step  behind  her,  and  had  scarcely  turned  her 
head,  when  a  rude  hand  grasped  her  shoulder,  and  as  rude  a 
voice  assailed  her  ear,  with,  "  What  are  you  doing  here, 
girl  ?' 

She,  trembling,  looked  up  and  saw  the  gigantic  figure  of  a 
man  towering  over  her,  and  appearing  more  colossal  from 
standing  on  the  step  from  which  she  had  just  descended. 
This  was  one  of  the  guardians  of  the  night  who  had  returned 
from  his  rounds,  and  seeing,  as  he  approached,  that  some  one 
was  in  the  passage,  had  descended  the  steps  cautiously,  to  take 
the  supposed  eave-dropper  or  outcast  by  surprise. 

"  Your  business  here  ?" 

"  I  have  come  here  for  help,  sir,"  was  the  answer  of  the 
trembling  maid. 

"  Why  did  you  stand  here  ?" 

"  I  did  not  know  which  way  to  go." 


Jl  scene  from  real  life,  101 

"  So  this  is  your  first  visit  to  the  watch-house?  Come 
then !  I'll  introduce  you  to  a  plenty  of  good  company." 

Saying  this  he  took  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  forward  to  the 
passage  from  which  she  had  heard  the  sound  of  voices.  Into 
this,  still  dar,  er  than  the  place  from  which  they  came,  he  turn 
ed  and  pressed  forward. 

Emma  involuntarily  shrunk,  and  held  back,  exclaiming, 
"  Heaven  protect  me!  What  a  place  is  this!" 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  miss,"  said  her  conductor,  seemingly 
impressed  favourably  by  her  words  and  voice,  "  don't  be 
alarmed — if  you  want  help,  this  is  the  place — I'll  speak  to  the 
captain." 

They  reached  a  door,  which  he  opened,  and  Emma  found 
herself  in  an  apartment  lighted,  by  what  appeared  from  the 
contrast,  a  noon-day  blaze.  Her  conductor  led  her  in, 
and  leaving  her  to  herself  while  he  spoke  to  the  captain,  she 
gazed  in  amazement  at  a  scene  so  utterly  strange  as  that 
which  surrounded  her. 

The  place  in  which  she  stood,  (environed  by  figures,  some 
sitting,  but  most  stretched  upon  benches  ;  some  talking,  others 
sleeping)  was  separated  by  gratings  from  an  inner  apartment, 
and,  as  her  quick  eye  fell  upon  the  prison-like  bars,  she  saw 
within  a  motley  crowd  of  every  colour — rags  and  filth  were 
commingled  with  dresses  of  pretension,  and  here  and  there 
flaring  female  ornaments,  with  feathers  and  silks,  caught  her 
bewildered  sight.  Curiosity,  to  see  what  new  figure,  what 
additional  wretch,  had  been  ushered  in  by  the  watchman,  to  be 
thrust  into  the  den  of  misery  as  a  companion  to  themselves, 
brought  many  to  the  bars  of  their  cage  ;  and  male  and  female, 
black  and  white  visages,  appeared,  with  eyes  staring  at  the  in 
nocent  and  almost  bewildered  girl,  like  hideous  phantasms  in 
a  feverish  dream.  The  contrast  formed  by  the  flaunting  finery 
of  some  females  who  had  been  hurried  hither  from  a  fancy-ball, 
with  the  forlorn  expression  of  their  faces,  the  degraded  situa 
tion,  and  the  squalid  appearance  of  their  companions,  seemed 
to  realize  the  fantastic  incongruities  of  a  vision  in  disturbed 
sleep.  Close  to  the  distorted  and  bloated  countenance  of  an 
enraged  drunkard  might  be  seen  the  pale  face  of  a  wretched 
woman,  whose  tears  had  washed  away  the  artificial  colouring 
meant  to  represent  health,  and  exhibited  the  wreck  of  beauty,  a 
prey  to  disease. 

Emma  turned  away  her  eyes  in  disgust  from  the  spectre- 
like  scene,  which,  at  first,  attracted  them  by  the  fascination  of 
strangeness — a  novelty  beyond  imagining.  After  the  first 

VOL.  H.  5 


102  A  scene  from  real  life. 

glare  of  the  room  on  entering,  the  light  became  dim,  the  air 
thick  and  offensive  to  the  senses.  The  objects  were  becoming 
indistinct — a  sickening  oppression  was  stealing  over  the  aston 
ished  maiden,  when  she  was  aroused  by  a  voice  demanding 
from  her  conductor,  who  she  was  1  and  for  what  offence  she 
was  brought  there  ? 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  turning  her  head  saw  the  captain  of 
the  watch,  whose  slumbers  had  been  broken  by  the  person  who 
introduced  her.  The  captain  was  at  this  moment  sitting  by 
the  fire  on  the  bench  which  had  been  his  bed :  his  head  was 
bound  with  a  bandana  handkerchief,  and  a  blanket  was  partly 
wrapt  around  him.  Emma's  conductor  was  still  explaining 
that  she  was  not  constrained  to  visit  their  place  of  guard,  and 
came  for  assistance ;  but  as  the  captain's  words  seemed  to 
confound  her  with  the  criminals  or  rioters  of  the  night,  they 
awakened  her  energies.  She  advanced  towards  him. 

"  I  am  not  brought  here  against  my  will.  I  come  to  demand 
assistance."  The  beautiful  girl  seemed  at  once  restored  to 
the  possession  of  her  courage  and  the  exercise  of  her  clear 
intellect.  "  I  come  for  help  to  save  a  gentleman  from  death. 
There  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost — let  me  conduct  some  of  the 
watch  to  his  assistance.  In  a  few  moments  he  may  be  a 
frozen  corpse — he  is  perishing  in  the  street — helpless — in  this 
killing — this  dreadful  night !" 

As  she  spoke  her  mantle  fell  back  from  her  head,  for  she 
had  thrown  it  over  her  quilted  hood  as  a  further  protection 
from  the  storm.  The  hood  slipt  off  with  it,  and  her  face, 
beaming  beauty,  benevolence,  and  intelligence,  appeared  glow 
ing  in  the  full  light  of  the  fire  :  the  comb,  which  alone  sustained 
the  profusion  of  silken  locks,  lost  its  hold  as  the  covering  of 
her  head  was  thrown  off,  and  her  long  clustering  tresses  rolled 
over  her  slender  form  in  luxuriant  confusion. 

The  captain  sprung  upon  his  feet  with  intent  to  apologise 
for  the  rough  reception  she  had  met :  he  was  prevented  by  one 
of  his  subordinates,  who  had,  like  himself,  been  slumbering  at 
the  fire  ;  but,  as  if  roused  by  the  last  words  of  Emma,  started 
up — gazed  at  the  unusual  apparition,  and  cried  out,  as  he  ad 
vanced  towards  her,  "  good  heavens,  Emma  Portland!  what? 
what  brings  you  here?'  She  was  employed  in  adjusting  her 
dress  when  she  heard  this  well  known  voice,  and  looking  up 
beheld  Henry  Johnson! 


103 


CHAPTER  XII. 
A  water-drinker  and  a  wine-bibber  in  a  snow-storm. 

"  Here  is  every  thing  advantageous  to  life." 
True  :   save  means  to  live." 

"  So  cares  and  joys  abound,  as  seasons  fbet/' — Shakspcare. 

'•'  —  When  coid  winter  splits  the  rocks  in  twain, 
And  ice  the  running  rivers  did  restrain." — Cowley. 

"  But  here  on  earth  the  guilty  have  in  view 
The  mighty  pains  to  mighty  mischiefs  due. — Dryden. 

"  In  whatsoever  character 
The  book  of  fate  is  writ, 
'Tis  well  we  understand  not  it." — Cowley. 

"  In  struggling  with  misfortunes 
Lies  the  true  proof  of  virtue." — Skakspeare. 

"  Good  fortune  that  comes  seldom, 
Comes  most  welcome." — Dryden. 

"  Novy  some  men  creep  in  skittish  fortune's  hall, 
While  others  play  the  idiot  in  her  eyes/' 

" Sometimes  we  are  devils  to  ourselves, 

When  we  will  tempt  the  frailty  of  our  powers." 

"  He  that  wants  money,  means,  and  content,  wants  three  good 
friends." — Shakspeare. 

"  Credit  it  me,  friend,  it  hath  been  ever  thus, 
Since  the  ark  rested  on  Mount  Ararat, 
False  man  hath  sworn,  and  woman  hath  believed — 
Repented  and  reproach'd,  and  then  believed  once  more.rr 

Walter  Scott. 

WE  have  seen  that  Spiffard,  his  wife,  and  her  mother,  had 
gone  to  their  several  duties  at  the  theatre  before  Emrna  Port 
land,  accompanied  by  black  Rachel,  braved  the  "  peltings  of 
the  pitiless  storm"  on  her  errand  of  charity :  it  was  later 
than  usual  before  they  returned  home,  and  found  that  the  ad 
venturous  girl,  beloved  most  sincerely  by  at  least  two  of  the 


104     Jl  water-drinker  and  a  wine-bibber  in  a  snow-storm* 

three,  was  absent.  Although  the  circumstance  occasioned 
surprise,  RachaeFs  testimony  in  some  measure  quieted  any  ap 
prehensions  for  her  safety,  as  Kent  was  expected  to  be  her 
safeguard  in  returning. 

The  ladies  took  supper  and  retired.  Spiffard  did  neither. 
To  wait  the  return  of  Emma,  or,  if  necessary,  go  in  search  of 
her,  was  the  ostensible  reason.  He  had  another. 

The  great  exertion  of  body  and  mind  necessary  to  the  due 
performance  of  a  long  and  arduous  character,  a  labour  fre 
quently  continued  for  many  successive  hours,  and  that,  after 
the  usual  business  of  the  day,  and  the  toil  of  preparation,  is  the 
excuse  given  for  what  is  called  taking  refreshment  during  the 
time  of  performance,  and  supper,  with  its  concomitants,  after. 
Both  the  one  and  the  other  too  frequently  lead  to  undue  ex 
citement  ;  and,  by  degrees,  aided  by  (those  tempters  to  wrong) 
our  vitiated  appetites,  to  destruction.  Spifiard's  exertion  in 
his  profession,  where  singing  and  acting  were  united,  never 
induced  him  to  swerve  from  his  habit :  and  the  tumbler  of 
water  during  labour,  and  sleep  after  it,  were  the  only  refresh 
ments  he  required. 

He  had  found  that  the  habits  of  his  wife,  fostered  by  her 
mother,  had  long  been  different ;  but  he  had  hoped  that,  by  de 
grees,  when  convinced  that  no  necessity  for  stimulants  existed, 
and  that  they  were  pernicious,  she  would  accommodate  herself 
to  his  views  and  wishes.  But  it  was  in  vain  that  he  had  de 
monstrated  the  utility  of  his  practice.  When  disappointed,  he 
had  remonstrated — in  vain.  He  found  that  attempts  at  de 
ception  were  made,  to  blind  him — promises,  made  with  ap 
parent  (and  at  times  perhaps  real)  good  faith,  were  broken. 
He  saw  no  hope  of  relief  but  by  abandoning  the  life  of  an 
actor. 

He  was  unhappy.  He  loved  the  great  tragic  actress  and  his 
love  had  been  founded  on  admiration  of  her  talents  in  the  pro 
fession.  Until  he  saw  her,  Spiffard  had  despised  the  shafts  of 
the  "  weak  wanton  cupid,"  or  if  he  had  felt  them,  he  had  roused 
his  strength  and  made  the  boy 

"Unloose  his  ani'rous  fold," 
"And  like  a  dew  drop  from  a  lion's  inane, 
Shook"  him  "to  air;" 

but  the  malicious  urchin  had  his  revenge.  The  attributes  of 
this  towering  beauty,  so  distinctive  from  his  own  form  and  char 
acter,  seemed  the  more  in  that  respect  to  have  fascinated  him. 
Her  skill  and  powers  in  an  art  he  loved;her  bold  demeanor  which 


A  water-drinker  and  a  wine-bibber  in  a  snow-storm.       105 

appeared  like  frankness,  and  often  was  so  ;  her  prompt  and 
pointed  speech  ;  her  attentions  to  him  in  preference  to  others 
more  favoured  in  external  beauty  and  lofty  stature  :  all,  all, 
tended  to  drive  the  nail  which  Hymen  clinched.  He  had  been 
subdued  without  struggle,  and  had  yielded  without  capitulation 
or  caution. 

To  ruminate  on  the  past  and  the  present;  to  form  schemes  for 
the  future  ;  employed  his  thoughts  as  he  sat  by  the  fire  until  a 
very  late  hour.  A  sudden  gust  of  wind  howling  at  the  windows 
and  down  the  chimney,  brought  to  his  mind  the  absence  of  Em 
ma,  for  whom  he  felt  a  brother's  love  ;  and  he  started  from  his 
reverie. 

Mrs.  SpifFard  on  awaking  from  her  first  sleep,  was  alarmed, 
for  her  husband's  absence  betokened  that  of  Emrna.  She  open 
ed  her  chamber  door  and  called  to  him.  He  was  preparing 
himself  to  sally  forth  ;  and  begging  his  wife  not  to  be  alarmed, 
he,  well  prepared  to  meet  the  inclemency  of  the  night,  proceed 
ed  towards  the  humble  abode  of  the  property-man. 

His  route  was  the  same  which  led  to  the  pitiable  spectacle  of 
the  man,  admired  by  thousands,  prostrate,  "  like  a  dead  dog 
despised,"  and  thrown,  as  if  unworthy  burial,  to  the  streets. 
Fortunately  SpifFard  took  the  same  side  of  the  pavement  which 
Emma  had  trodden,  otherwise  he  might  have  passed,  unnoticed, 
an  object  that  was  whitened  by  the  falling  snow,  and  which  ap 
peared  in  the  obscurity  of  the  storm  more  like  a  mass  of  accu 
mulated  filth  and  ice  than  a  man.  On  recognising  in  this  for 
lorn  outcast  the  person  in  whom  he  took  so  deep  an  interest, 
his  astonishment  was  only  equalled  by  his  fears  for  his  life. 

**  This  !  this  is  one  fruit  of  intemperance  !"  darted  through  his 
mind,  accompanied  by  a  thousand  images  flashing  with  the  ra 
pidity  of  lightning,  all  connected  with  the  brutalizing  vice  which 
could  alone  bring  a  man  in  the  height  of  popularity,  flushed 
with  success  and  possessing  all  that  wealth  or  admirers  could 
bestow,  to  this  pitiable  perishing  condition — a  houseless  wretch 
thrust  to  the  winter's  blast,  to  die  abandoned  by  humanity. 
Thought  and  action  were  coexistent.  The  shock  experienced 
and  the  train  of  ideas  excited  by  this  humiliating  spectacle,  did 
not  render  SpifFard  less  prompt  in  his  endeavours  to  ascertain 
the  extent  of  the  evil,  and  to  apply  all  possible  remedy.  His 
friend  was  alive,  but  helpless  as  a  corpse.  SpiiTard,  though  ac 
tive  and  strong,  could  not  lift  him,  or  he  would  have  borne  him 
to  the  fire  he  had  just  left.  He  next  thought  of  alarming  the 
neighbours  and  gaining  a  shelter  for  the  almost  inanimate  body. 


106       A  water-drinker  and  a  wine-bibber  in  a  snow-storm. 

He  had  strength  enough  to  place  the  unhappy  man,  leaning 
and  in  a  sitting  position,  against  the  lamp-post,  with  his  face 
turned  from  the  cutting  wind  and  driving  snow.  His  head  sunk 
upon  his  chest,  in  deathlike  sleep. 

As  he  prepared  to  execute  his  purpose  of  knocking  at  a  neigh 
bouring  door  and  calling  for  assistance,  he  perceived  that  an  ef 
fort  was  making  by  the  old  man  to  speak,  and  with  great  diffi 
culty  the  paralyzed  organs  indistinctly  uttered,  il  let  me  alone — 
let  me  sleep — don't — don't." 

At  the  same  moment  he  saw  some  persons  approaching  from 
Broadway  with  a  light;  and  to  his  astonishment  he  soon  per 
ceived  that  one  of  them  \vas  a  female.  The  image  of  Emma 
had  been  driven  from  his -mind  by  the  surprise  of  finding  Cooke 
in  such  a  place  at  such  a  time  and  in  such  a  condition.  His 
surprise  was  as  great  when  he  saw  the  lovely  girl  advancing  in 
a  direction  opposite  to  that  in  which  he  would  have  sought  her, 
and  accompanied  by  two  watchmen.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say 
that  Henry  Johnson  was  one  of  them. 

The  explanations  that  took  place  were  made  briefly  and  ra 
pidly.  Henry  determined  to  convey  the  helpless  man  to  the 
house  of  his  mother  for  present  shelter.  The  three  men  raised 
him — he  protesting  against  being  disturbed.  They  bore  him 
towards  Mrs.  Johnson's  :  Emma  leading  the  way  and  carrying 
the  light. 

Here  were  three  votaries  of  temperance,  saving  from  death 
and  conducting  to  the  house  of  the  sick  and  poor,  the  wealthy 
and  admired  victim  of  a  vice  they  abhorred. 

On,  Emma  Portland  made  her  way,  against  wind  and  snow; 
a  guide  to  the  encumbered  and  labouring  group.  She  might  be 
likened  to  the  "bright  particular  star,"  the  mariner's  safety  in 
trouble. 

SpifTard's  ever  active  mind,  notwithstanding  his  bodily  exer 
tions,  was  comparing  the  light  and  fragile  tigure  braving  the 
blast  and  the  snow-wreath  to  save  a  fellows-creature,  with  those 
whose  charity  is  bounded  by  the  gift  of  alms.  The  chanty  of 
action,  was  like  an  angel  moving  before  him.  When  they  ar 
rived  at  Mrs.  Johnson's  dwelling,  Emma  had  already  knocked 
and  was  waiting  for  admission. 

In  the  meantime  her  followers  had  many  surmises  and  some 
words.  We  will  not  endeavour  to  penetrate  the  thoughts  of 
Henry  Johnson  during  this  laborious  wralk :  it  is  not  too  much 
to  suppose  that  admiration  of  the  conducting  messenger  had  an 
ample  share  in  them.  But  his  brother  watchman — the  altogether 


*fl  water-drinker  and  a  wine-bibber  in  a  snoiv-storm.       107 

watchman,  who  was  not  of  that  feeble  or  lame  decrepid  fa 
mily  which  dramatists  a»d  novelists  have  delighted  to  describe, 
but  a  sturdy  American  mechanic,  who  added  the  wages  of  the 
night  to  those  of  the  day  to  procure  present  comfort,  and  future 
increase  of  it,  for  a  wife  and  children,  and  whose  strength  was 
adequate  to  his  share  of  the  inert  burthen  he  helped  to  bear — 
what  were  his  thoughts  as  he  laboured  with  his  companions  to 
support  the  heavy  frame  of  the  half  dead  tragedian  1  "  Poor 
wretch !  "  said  Henry  "  but  we  shall  scon  get  a  comfortable 
place  for  his  shelter.  My  mother's  doors  will  not  be  closed 
against  the  sufferer." 

"  The  devil's  doors,"  said  the  watchman,  "  would  open  to  re 
ceive  a  fellow  creature  in  such  a  night  as  this.  The  young 
lady  said  he  was  a  gentleman.  The  devil's  a  gentleman  too, 
they  say.  She  called  him  Cooke.  The  cook  has  made  a  pret 
ty  kettle  of  fish  of  it  to-night.  Johnson,  do  you  know  who  he  is'? 
She  called  him  the  great  something — by  George  Washington! 
he  would  soon  have  made  something  less  than  nothing  if  that 
pretty  little  girl  hadn't  brought  some  of  us  little  folks  to  help 
his  greatness." 

The  motion  had  so  far  roused  Cooke  that  the  word  George 
caught  his  attention  and  he  muttered  heavily,  "George — George 
Frederick — let  me  alone^  you  black — I'll  never  go  to  his  house 
again — a  blow  ! — George  Fred — a  blow — "  and  he  sunk  again 
into  lethargic  slumber. 

'  What  is  he  V  asked  the  watchman. 
'  A  great  player,"  answered  Spiffard. 
'Player?  at' what?" 
'  He  is  a  great  actor,"  said  Henry. 

'  0,  he  makes  believe  great  and  good  on  the  stage,  and 
plays  the  devil  every  where  else — and  see  what  it  comes  to.;> 

"  He  is  not  always  wise,"  said  Spiffard.  "  Who  is?" 

"  That's  true,"  said  the  watchman.  "  I  have  heard  of  lawyer's 
breaking  the  law,  and  preachers  forgetting  the  gospel,  but  some 
how  or  another  I  am  apt  to  put  great  and  good  together,  like 
Franklin  or  Washington:  but  it's  hard  to  couple  great  with  such 
a  thing  as  this." 

Each  step  the  bearers  took,  their  burthen  became  heavier. 
They  were  silent  for  want  of  breath,  for  every  foot  was  encum 
bered  with  snow,  and  the  furious  blasts  resisted  their  efforts  to 
proceed.  The  watchman  shifted  his  part  of  the  burthen  from 
one  hand  to  the  other.  Spiffard  stumbled,  and  to  save  himself 
relinquished  his  grasp.  Henry  saw  that  Emma  had  reached  the 
door,  and  stood  knocking  without  admittance. 


108       Jl  water-drinker  and  a  wine-bibber  in  a  snow-storm. 

**  Stop !"  said  the  watchman,  "  let  us  try — " 

"Let  go!"  said  Henry. — With  the  strength  of  athletic  youth 
he  snatched  the  old  man  from  his  companions,  and  treading  in 
Emma's  steps  he  reached  his  mother's  door,  where  the  almost 
exhausted  girl  was  striving  to  make  herself  heard. 

Again  the  watchman  and  Spiffard  assisted  the  youth  to  sup 
port  the  ponderous  load,  while  all  impatiently  awaited  the  mo 
ment  that  should  give  them  shelter,  but  none  so  intensely  felt 
the  delay  as  he  who  saw  the  guiding  minister  of  mercy  before 
him,  shivering,  almost  sinking — and  saw  in  her  a  creature  he 
loved  more  than  life. 

*' Don't  alarm  your  mother,  they  hear  me,  let  me  go  in  first." 

The  sick  woman  did  not  sleep  ;  but  the  little  black  Hannah 
\vas  so  thickly  encompassed  by  the  blankets  of  forgetfulness 
that  although  in  the  same  room  with  her  mistress,  it  was  with 
difficulty  she  was  awakened,  and  even  then,  could  not  compre 
hend  for  some  time  the  direction  to  "  see  who  knocked  at  the 
door."  Emma,  to  prepare  Mrs.  Johnson,  whose  voice  she  heard 
through  the  thin  tenement,  said,  "  open  the  door !  it  is  me,  Han 
nah."  And  with  an  exclamation  of  "  O,  it's  Miss  Ernmy!"  the 
girl  did  not  wait  for  further  orders,  but  unlocked  and  opened. 
Mrs.  Johnson's  alarm  was  for  her  young  friend,  whose  voice 
at  such  a  season,  and  heard  amid  the  bowlings  of  a  storm,  filled 
her  with  bewildering  apprehensions. 

The  street-door  of  the  uncomfortable  dwelling-place  opened 
upon  the  only  apartment  below,  which  was  the  bed-chamber 
of  Mrs.  Johnson  and  Hannah,  as  well  as  the  receptacle  of 
kitchen  utensils,  and  all  the  furniture  poverty  had  left  to  the 
poor.  The  garret-room  served  her  son  as  a  resting-place. 

Emma,  entered  and  begging  Mrs.  Johnson  not  to  be  alarm 
ed,  took  her  hand  and  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  It  is  Henry,  humane 
ly  assisting  a  man  in  distress,"  and  then  returned  to  the  door 
(which  the  bearers  of  Cooke  had  left  open)  and  closed  it. 

A  lamp  on  the  hearth  threw  a  faint  light  over  the  chamber. 
The  lanthorn  which  Emma  had  borne  was  deposited  on  a  table 
near  the  door  immediately  on  her  entering.  The  sick  woman 
had  started  up  in  bed  and  thrown  aside  the  curtain  between'her 
and  the  door  on  the  first  alarm  ;  she  gazed  wildly  on  the  three 
figures  as  they  came  in  supporting  their  senseless  burthen. 

The  bearers  of  Cooke  entered  the  room  in  such  wise  as  to 
present  his  feet  to  the  hearth,  from  whence  the  strongest  light 
in  the  place  proceeded.  Henry  Johnson,  (who  supported  the 
head  and  upper  portion  of  the  old  man's  person),  at  this  mo- 


A  water-drinker  and  a  wine-bibber  in  a  snmv-storm.     1C9 

rnent  so  lifted  his  head  that  the  rays  fell  full  on  the  face,  and 
the  eyes  were  convulsively  opened,  as  if  to  catch  them. 
Shaded  by  her  situation  from  the  light,  the  sick  lady  had  for  a 
moment  a  full  view  of  the  face  of  the  unfortunate  creature,  thus 
borne  into  her  hovel  by  her  son.  It  was  but  momentary  ;  for 
the  bodies  of  Spiffard  and  the  watchman,  who  bore  the  inferior 
extremities  of  the  corpse-like  object,  intervened,  and  cast  a 
shadow  over  the  features. 

Emma  was  advancing  towards  her  sick  friend,  after  closing 
the  door  against  the  storm,  and  was  hastening  to  explain  ap 
pearances  so  extraordinary  ;  but  was  shocked  to  see  the  ex 
pression  of  her  countenance.  Her  eyes,  following  in  wild 
gaze  the  group,  (as  they  approached  the  fire-place,  and  put 
their  burthen  down),  seemed  almost  starting  from  their  sock 
ets.  A  flash  of  light  again  fell  on  the  old  man's  head  ;  and  be 
fore  Emma  could  speak,  the  sick  woman  exclaimed,  "  My 
God  !  my  God  !"  and  fell  back,  covering  her  face  with  the  bed 
clothes.  She  had  fainted. 

This  might  have  been  occasioned,  in  her  weak  state,  by  the 
agitation  which  the  incident  produced  ;  for  to  see  a  man  borne 
into  her  chamber  after  midnight,  in  a  state  of  insensibility, 
from  whatever  cause,  was  sufficient  to  overpower  a  stronger 
frame  than  Mrs.  Johnson's.  But  Emma's  quick  eye  saw — or 
her  quick  imagination  suggested — something  more ;  she  knew 
not  what.  She  flew  to  her  assistance.  The  men,  occupied 
with  Cooke,  did  not  notice  either  the  looks  or  exclamations  of 
the  invalid.  They  proceeded  to  rekindle  the  expiring  fire  ;  and 
after  placing  the  wretched  man  in  a  chair,  they  by  degrees  re 
stored  him  to  a  consciousness  of  existence,  although  still  under 
the  influence  of  the  fatal  cause  of  his  degradation. 

The  efforts  of  Emma  Portland  were  successful.  Mrs. 
Johnson  revived  ;  and  seeing  herself  in  'he  arms  of  her  young 
friend,  her  first  exclamation  was,  as  she  gazed  in  her  beautiful 
face,  exposed  fully  to  view  by  throwing  off  the  drenched  snow- 
covered  hood — "  Thank  God  !  it  was  but  a  dream.  I  did  not 

7*  Q  Q  -     ^ 

Before  she  had  finished  the  sentence,  the  hoarse  discordant 
voice  of  the  object  of  her  terror  gave  assurance  that  he  was 
still  in  her  presence.  She  heard  him  calling  for  brandy  ;  and 
uttering  curses  and  imprecations  on  those  who  were  endea 
vouring  to  save  him. 

The  sick  lady  hastily  drew  the  curtains  of  her  bed  between 
her  and  the  group  at  the  fire,  and  then  throwing  herself  with 

5* 


110    A  water-drinker  and  a  wine-bibber  in  a  snow-storm. 

her  face  on  the  pillow,  murmured  wildly,  "  Save  me  !  save 
me  !"  For  a  moment  Emma's  astonishment  rendered  her  im 
movable.  She  then  heard  the  sobs  of  her  friend  ;  and  hoping 
tears  would  relieve  what  she  supposed  was  an  hysterical  affec 
tion,  produced  by  fright,  endeavoured  to  quiet  her  agitation  ; 
but  for  some  minutes  no  attention  was  paid  to  her  soothing  and 
encouraging  words.  Such  conduct  in  one  usually  calm  and 
resigned  under  every  suffering,  created  a  confusion  of  ideas, 
and  a  tumultuous  thronging  of^  half-formed  conjectures,  in  the 
mind  of  Miss  Portland,  that  bade  defiance  to  every  effort  she 
could  make,  for  the  recovery  of  her  self-command. 

At  length  Mrs.  Johnson,  becoming  more  calm,  inquired  in 
whispers  the  meaning  of  Emma's  appearance,  under  such  cir 
cumstances,  and  at  such  a  time.  She  was  briefly  told,  that  de 
tained  late  by  her  attendance  on  the  sick,  she  had,  in  going 
home,  found  Mr.  Cooke  in  a  state  of  insensibility,  and,  as  she 
thought,  perishing ;  that  Henry  had  saved  him  and  brought  him 
to  her  hearth.  But,  again,  to  Emma's  astonishment,  the  agi 
tation  of  her  aged  friend  increased,  and  she  murmured — 

"  You — brought  Henry — to  rescue  him  !  He  saved  him — 
from  death  !  Henry — bore  him — in  his  arms — to  my  fireside 
— O,  heavenly  Father !" 

And  again  she  hid  her  face,  and  sobbed  aloud.  Emma 
looked  with  bewildered  feelings  at  emotion  so  strong  as  to  be 
unaccountable  ;  for  although  the  incidents  were  strange,  they 
were  apparently  inadequate  to  produce  such  effects  upon  such 
a  person,  so  mild,  and  piously  resigned. 

The  scene  became  more  calm.  Mrs.  Johnson  appeared 
quiet.  Emma  sat  by  her  in  silence.  The  voice  of  the  turbu 
lent  George  Frederick  sunk  to  mutterings ;  and  finally,  as  the 
warmth  of  the  room  and  fire  produced  their  effect,  was  lost  in 
a  lethargic  sleep.  The  watchman  declared  that  he  must  re 
turn  to  the  hall  and  watch-house  ;  undertaking,  at  Henry's  sug 
gestion,  to  represent  to  the  Captain  the  necessity  for  his  re 
maining  with  Cooke.  Spiffard,  assuring  Mrs.  Johnson  that 
at  an  early  hour  he  would  come  with  a  sleigh  and  remove  his 
friend,  obtained  permission  of  Henry,  that  he  might  remain 
under  his  protection  until  morning  ;  and  then  representing  to 
Emma  the  propriety  of  their  hastening  home,  where  her  long- 
absence  must  occasion  great  alarm,  she  prepared  again,  with 
Henry's  assistance  and  Spiffard's  protection,  to  encounter  the 
storm- — Henry  lamenting  the  necessity  for  his  remaining  with 
his  mother  and  her  unexpected  inmate. 


Ill 


CHAPTER  XIIT. 

Jin  unexp ected  family  -m« s ting. 

Tis  our  own  wisdom  moulds  our  state  : 

Our  faults  and  virtues  make  our  fate." — Cowley. 

"  The  power  that  ministers  to  God's  decrees, 
And  executes  on  earth  what  he  foresees  : 
Called  providence,  or  chance,  or  fatal  sway — '' — Dryden. 

"  The  heavens  have  bless' d  you  with  a  goodly  son, 
To  be  your  comforter." — Skakspeare. 

"  For  what  we  learn  in  youth,  to  that  alone, 
In  age  we  are,  by  second  nature  prone." — Dryden. 

<c  I  look  as  if  all  hell  were  in  my  heart ! 

And  I  in  hell!  nay  surely 'tis  so  with  me." — Otway. 

"  Are  these  things  then  necessities  1 
Then  Jet  us  meet  them  with  necessities." 

"  Pay  her  the  debt  you  owe  her,  and  unpay  the  villany  you  have  done 
with  her;  the  one  you  may  do  with  sterling  money,  and  the  other  with 
current  resistance." — Skakspeare. 

THE  progress  of  our  story  brings  us  to  the  description  of  a 
scene,  such  as  I  believe  is  new  to  the  readers  of  romance,  and 
could  only  have  been  produced  by  the  fatal  effects  of  that  vice 
which  it  is  my  object  faithfully  to  portray. 

As  the  little  black  Hannah  had  long  retired  to  renewed  sleep, 
by  taking  refuge  up-stairs,  the  apartment  was  left  to  the  sole 
occupancy  of  Cooke,  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  her  son. 

The  object  of  his  late  solicitude  being  now  safe  from  imme 
diate  peril,  and  asleep  by  the  fire,  Henry  approached  the  bed 
and  drew  aside  the  curtains  to  inquire  how  far  this  intrusion 
had  disturbed  his  mother.  Having  been  assured  by  her,  that 
although  she  had  been  frightened  and  agitated,  still  she  was 
glad  that  he  had  brought  the  unhappy  man  to  her  house,  he 
said,  "  I  presume,  mother,  that  Emma  has  told  you  who  it  is 


112  Jin  unexpected  family-meeting. 

that  we  have  prevented  from  freezing  to  death,  like  an  outcast 
from  the  human  race,  in  the  streets  of  this  populous  city.  Is 
it  not  strange,  that  the  celebrated  Mr.  Cooke,  after  whom 
thousands  run  to  enjoy  the  effects  of  his  skill,  and  night  after 
night  hail  him  with  delight,  and  crown  him  with  applause, 
should  be  abandoned  to  perish  like  a  dog,  unsheltered  from 
such  a  storm  of  wind  and  snow  as  now  howls  around  us  ?  Is 
it  not  strange  ?" 

"  Strange  !     It  is  all  strange." 

"  That  we  should  succour  him?" 

"  Yes,  Henry,  that  we  should  succour  him." 

"  We,  who  however  much  we  might  wish  to  share  in  the 
pleasure  his  talents  afford — and  all  say  he  is  unrivalled — that 
we,  who  are  by  poverty  prevented  the  gratification  thousands 
enjoy,  in  seeing  and  hearing  him  during  the  proud  exhibitions 
of  genius — that  we  should  see  him  thus,  and  be  instruments 
in  saving  him  from  destruction.  That  while  his  admirers  and 
his  intimates  should  be  unconscious  of  his  peril — that  he  should 
owe  his  safety  to  us,  who  have  never  even  seen  him  !" 

"  To  us  !  To  us,  who — to  one Henry,  my  son,  did  you 

— did  you  bear  him  in  your  arms  to  your  mother's  roof  for 
shelter  1" 

"  Yes.  After,  by  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Spiffard  and  George 
Crosby,  he  had  been  raised  from  the  pavement,  and  brought 
near  the  house,  I,  alone,  took  him  in  my  arms  until  we  reached 
the  door;  and  then  they  assisted  in  bringing  him  in." 

"  O,  merciful  father  !  what  a  picture  is  this !" 

"  Mother!" 

"  The  son — Henry,  the  time  has  come — you  must  know — " 

"  Mother !" 

"  The  son,  bearing  his  degraded  and  almost  lifeless  father 
in  his  arms  to  the  hearth  of  the  deserted  wife — the  cherished 
mother !" 

"For  heaven's  sake,  mother  !"  And  he  turned  his  eyes  to 
the  man  of  whom  they  spoke,  with  emotions  so  conflicting,  that 
his  countenance  assumed  the  appearance  of  one  without 
thought.  But  when  his  sight  was  fixed  on  the  disgusting  ob 
ject  occupying  the  chair  which  he  had  prepared  for  his  feeble 
mother,  and  muttering  incoherent  sentences  in  his  troubled 
sleep,  he  could  not  withdraw  it,  but  gazed  as  if  fascinated  by 
an  obscene  spectre.  At  length  he  exclaimed,  "  This  !  this  ! 
My  father  /" 

"Yes,  Henry.  That  man,  on  whom  your  straining 
eyes  are  fixed  as  though  they  would  start  from  their  sockets 


An  unexpected  family-meeting. 

— that  man,  from  whom,  for  your  sake,  I  would  willingly 
withdraw  my  eyes  forever — that  man  is  my  husband,  and  your 
father." 

Thus  were  three  beings  brought  together  in  one  small  apart 
ment — drawn,  as  into  an  enchanter's  circle,  by  a  power  beyond 
all  sorcery — forced  against  will  to  approach  each  other  by  a 
chain  of  causation  forged  from  all  eternity.  Ordained  to  meet 
for  good  purposes,  and  the  exercise  of  charity,  by  the  great 
and  all-beneficent  Artificer  of  that  great  universe,  whose  re 
volving  worlds  and  central  suns  cherish  life  and  motion,  be 
yond  our  faculties  to  comprehend — of  that  great  system  in 
which  the  man,  and  the  worm,  and  the  mite  are  parts  :  all  pro 
vided  for  by  that  infinite  wisdom,  against  whose  will  they  seem 
to  struggle,  but  struggle  in  vain. 

In  this,  as  in  all  things,  his  will  shall  ultimately  prevail. 
Three  of  the  human  family  so  connected — so  dissevered — 
so  dissimilar — are  here  brought  together  by  means  unsought 
and  unknown.  There  stood  the  son,  between  the  sick  and 
long-suffering  mother,  and  a  father  whose  faults  and  cherished 
habits  had  caused  that  wife  and  mother  to  fly  for  shelter  to  a 
foreign  land,  that  her  child  might  not  be  sullied  by  his  father's 
vices.  A  mother  who  had  withheld  all  knowledge  of  his  father 
from  her  son,  until  she  saw  him  the  pure  and  high-souled  being 
who  would  only  be  more  firmly  fixed  in  worth  by  the  know 
ledge  of  a  father's  weakness. 

Such  were  the  beings  brought  thus  strangely  together.  Such 
is  the  picture  I  would  place  before  my  reader. 

Mrs.  Johnson,  now  in  the  decline  of  life,  who  had  by  twenty 
years  of  penitence,  united  with  well-doing",  expiated  the  follies 
of  youth,  and  suffered  with  humility  and  resignation  the  inevi 
table  consequences  of  self-willed  rashness.  Mr.  Cooke,  still 
further  declined  "  into  the  vale  of  years,"  conscious,  when  ca- 
pableof  thought,  that  by  the  gratification  of  selfishness  and  sen 
sual  propensities,  nourished  into  habits,  he  had  brought  disease 
and  premature  decay  on  himself,  and  blighted  all  the  good 
gifts  of  nature.  But  the  third  figure  in  this  incongruous  family 
picture,  stood  between  them,  in  health,  strength,  bright  intel 
lectual  faculties,  perfected  by  ardent  study,  and  crowned  by 
moral  and  religious  habits. 

"  No,  mother,  no  !  A  father  is  one  who  protects,  instructs, 
blesses.  This  man  did  neither  for  me.  My  father  must  have 
loved  and  cherished  my  mother.  This  man  did  neither.  I 
have  but  one  father  !  He  did  all  this  for  you  and  for  me  !  To 
this  man  I  owe  nothing,  for  he  has  done  nothing  for  me  ;  and 


114  Jin  unexpected  family-meeting. 

the  blessings  I  enjoy — for  which  I  owe  you  my  gratitude — are 
owing  to  my  never  having  known  that  man :  being  separated 
from  him  I  have  escaped  pollution  !" 

"  Do  not  speak  so,  my  son !  He  is  your  father !  Sit  down 
by  me,  Henry.  You  are  agitated  by  the  thoughts  that  this  dis 
covery  suggests." 

He  sunk  down  on  the  bed  and  embraced  his  mother. 

"  That  you,  a  being  so  pure,  should  have  been  united  to 
such " 

4<  Hush  !     He  is  your  father  !" 

"  That  you,  mother,  whose  soul  is  truth,  should,  for  a  long 
series  of  years,  have  lived  in  a  foreign  country,  and  sheltered 
by  a  false  character  !  You,  who  have  taught  me  to  shun  all 
mystery,  and  have  even  disapproved  of  this  pious  disguise 
which  I  now  wear ;  though  I  have  never  denied  what  I  thought 
my  name,  but  am  enrolled  in  the  city  watch  as  Henry  John 
son — a  name  I  will  always  retain !  Even  this  dress,  put  on 
when  my  duty  as  a  clerk  is  over,  to  gain  a  pittance  for  your 
comfort  in  sickness,  appeared  to  your  mind  too  much  like  de 
ception  ;  and  yet  that  man's  baseness  has  forced  you  to  assume 
a  false  name,  and  hide  from  me,  your  son,  the  knowledge  of 
your  marriage  with  one,  whose  name  has  been  bruited  in  our 
ears,  year  after  year,  and  who  has  for  months  occupied  the 
public  attention  in  the  land  to  which  he  had  driven  }OU  for 
refuge  !" 

"  I  have  never  said  that  he  drove  me  from  England." 

"  Circumstances  speak  louder  than  words.  But  now  there 
can  be  no  objections  to  my  knowing  all  ;  and  while  he  sleeps 
under  the  influence  of  the  poison  which  has  caused  his  ruin, 
and  so  much  sorrow  to  you,  tell  me  the  leading  facts  of  your 
story  ;  let  me  know — Mister  Cooke  /" 

Mrs.  Johnson,  at  the  earnest  solicitations  of  her  son, 
briefly  related  the  facts  connected  with  her  marriage  ;  which 
I  will  give,  as  briefly,  in  my  own  words,  in  the  next  chapter. 


115 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Domestic  life  of  the  intemperate. 

"Mens'  vows  are  woraens'  traitors." 

t:  False  as  the  wind,  the  water,  or  the  weather ; 
Cruel  as  tigers  o'er  their  trembling  prey." 

Though  those  that  are  betray'd, 


Do  feel  the  treason  sharply ;  yet  the  traitor 
Stands  in  worse  case  of  woe. 

"  Make  me  acquainted  with  your  cause  of  grief." 

"To  be  entangled  with  those  mouth-made  vows, 
That  break  themselves  in  swearing." 

"  By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke. 
In  number  more  than  ever  women  spoke." 

c<  The  purest  treasure  mortal  times  afford, 
Is  spotless  reputation.    Mine  honour 
Is  my  life." — Shakspeare. 

ALL  we  have  to  do  with  the  story  of  George  Frederick 
Cooke,  is  to  account  for  his  connection  with  the  fate  of  Mrs. 
Johnson. 

Cooke  was  the  son  of  an  Irish  serjeant  of  dragoons,  and  of 
a  Scotch  lady.  He  was  born  on  the  17th  of  April,  1756. 

The  serjeant  died  soon,  and  the  lady  was  received  again  by 
the  friends  she  had  abandoned,  (for  the  drum  or  the  bugle  ;)  at 
least,  so  far  as  to  be  enabled  to  live  above  want,  and  give  her 
only  child,  George  Frederick,  a  good  English  education,  in  the 
town  of  Berwick  upon  Tweed. 

He  had  been  married  to  a  Miss  Daniels,  and  divorced  from 
her  legally,  and  was  at  the  height  of  his  celebrity,  when  it  was 
the  ill  fate  of  a  Miss  Lamb  to  be  thrown  into  his  society.  He, 
in  common  with  General  Williams,  and  Richard  the  Third,  had 


116  Domestic  life  of  the  intemperate. 

a  wheedling  tongue  :  and  the  young  lady  was  flattered  by  the 
attentions  of  the  man  whom  the  people  "  delighted  to  honour." 
She  was  told  that  his  habits  had  long  been  of  the  worst  kind, 
•*  but,  "  as  all  is  mortal  in  nature,  so  is  all  nature,  in  love,  mor 
tal  in  folly."  She  considered  all  these  tales  as  "  weak  inven 
tions  of  the  enemy  ;"  and,  like  many  other  young  ladies,  pre 
ferred  her  own  inclinations  to  the  advice  of  her  friends. 

Miss  Lamb, as  the  London  Witlings  of!808,said,  "was  basted 
by  the  Cooke,"  she,  like  many  young  people  of  both  sexes,  for 
med  erroneous  ideas  of  the  stage,  and  those  who  tread  it.  She 
had  seen  and  admired  Cooke  at  Covent  Garden,  before  she  met 
him  in  private  company.  She  had  witnessed  the  enthusiastic 
admiration  of  others.  To  be  the  admired  of  the  admired,  turned 
the  head  of  the  young  and  artless  girl.  In  vain  she  was  fore 
warned  :  his  fame,  and  his  bewitching  manners,  when  sober ; 
(as  he  could  continue  long  to  be,  for  any  subordinate  purpose, 
though  not  to  preserve  health,  reputation,  and  well-being,)  sur 
mounted  all  opposition  :  the  lady  became  Mrs.  Cooke. 

But  long  before  this  sacrifice  of  the  Lamb,  say  in  the  year 
1790  or  '91,  for  nobody  ever  knew  the  exact  date,  a  similar 
sacrifice  had  been  made  at  the  same  altar.  Indeed,  we  have 
reason  to  believe  that  George  Frederick  was  as  little  scrupu 
lous  in  forming  matrimonial  engagements,  as  he  was  in  enter 
ing  into  theatrical  ones,  and  broke  them  as  easily.  This  early 
engagement  was  with  the  lady  who  we  know  as  Mrs.  Johnson. 
Cooke  was  then  the  hero  of  Manchester,  Liverpool,  Bath,  and 
Bristol ;  and  even  then  was  noted  for  long  continued,  and  oft 
repeated  seasons  of  intemperance.  However,  the  lady  thought 
love  would  cure  all  faults,  and  she  married  him.  Of  this  mar 
riage  I  can  find  no  record  ;  certain  it  is,  he  married  twice  in 
England,  and  once  in  America  afterward. 

With  some  little  outbreakings,  now  and  then,  we  may  sup 
pose  that  months  passed  almost  happily.  George  was  fond  of 
reading,  and  really  loved  his  wife — for  a  time.  It  was  impossi 
ble  that  any  creature,  possessing  human  feelings,  could  do 
otherwise.  Attractive  in  personal  appearance,  though  no 
beauty — with  all  the  good  habits  rendered  permanent  by  a  ten 
der  domestic  education — with  love  and  admiration  of  her  hus 
band,  approaching  to  idolatry — in  short,  with  every  qualifica 
tion  to  render  a  retired  matrimonial  life  happy — how  could  a 
man,  endowed,  by  nature,  with  good  sense  and  good  feeling,  fail 
to  love  such  a  being  ? 

But  habit — that  devil,  or  that  angel,  as  it  is  good  or  evil — 
the  habit,  which,  in  this  unhappy  man,  had  weakened  the  best 


Domestic  life  of  the  intemperate.  117 

feelings  of  our  nature,  and  proved  the  worst  of  devils,  resumed 
that  sway,  which,  the  desire  to  gain  a  fine  young  girl,  and  the 
novelty  of  a  happy  marriage,  had  interrupted.  The  bottle,  and 
the  riot,  and  the  madness  of  intoxication,  increased  by  the 
waning  of  love,  and  perfected  by  former  associations,  prevailed 
over  every  consideration  which  ought  to  guide  a  rational 
creature. 

The  sufferings  of  the  wife  were  beyond  the  power  of  pen  to 
portray.  Long  she  pined  in  solitude,  for  she  only  saw  her 
husband  when  he  required  a  nurse  or  a  servant.  No  reproach, 
by  word  or  look,  escaped  her.  Her  tears  were  unseen  ;  her 
smiles  and  tenderness  unappreciated.  She  became  a  mother, 
and  saw  that  her  child  had  no  father.  From  bad  to  worse — 
from  insensibility  to  brutality — down — down,  sunk  the  victim 
of  vice  ;  and  lower  and  lower  in  misery,  the  victim's  victim. 

The  friends  of  the  lady  interfered  ;  but  the  pride  of  the  con 
scious  criminal  was  roused,  and  defiance  to  them,  and  reproach 
to  his  wife,  was  the  consequence. 

Let  us  draw  a  veil  over  the  scenes  which  could  induce  such 
a  woman  as  Mrs.  Johnson  to  adopt  the  resolution  of  flying, 
with  her  child,  from  their  native  country,  to  seek  a  refuge  from 
the  husband  and  the  father.  To  mitigate  her  own  sufferings, 
might  have  proved  a  sufficient  motive  for  assuming  another 
name,  and  crossing  the  seas  ;  but  she  had  another  :  to  remove 
her  boy  from  such  a  parent,  and  hide  from  him  the  knowledge 
of  a  being,  whose  example  might  cause  ruin,  and  whose  con 
duct  must  cause  shame. 

She  was  assisted  by  sympathising  friends  ;  and  the  measures 
taken  for  her  flight  were  so  judiciously  planned,  and  carefully 
executed,  that  she  was  placed  in  safety,  with  the  means  of  pre 
sent  support,  on  the  shores  of  the  new  world. 

Cooke  never  knew  where  she  had  gone,  or  how  she  had 
been  enabled  to  accomplish  a  reireat  which  left  no  traces  be 
hind.  The  event  awakened  him  to  remorse.  His  pride,  toor 
was  hurt.  But  every  voice  that  cried  shame  !  was  drowned  by 
the  voice  of  intemperance.  In  time,  the  wife  and  child  appeared 
to  be  forgotten,  as  though  they  had  never  been.  But  although 
he  married  again  and*  again,  they  visited  his  dreams  ;  and  in 
those  moments  when  images  of  the  past  come  unbidden ;  the 
moments  of  feverish  and  unquiet  sleep  ;  moments  appropriated 
to  themselves  by  the  intemperate  ;  in  those  moments  when  the 
present  is  shrouded  in  clouds  and  darkness,  then  would  a  flash 
from  awakening  conscience  illumine  the  figures  of  his  wife  and 
child.  She,  holding  the  boy  up,  as  if  to  invite  the  father's  hand* 


118  Domestic  life  of  the  intemperate. 

and  suddenly  snatchiag  the  infant  away  when  within  his  grasp. 
Sometimes  in  bodily  torture,  his  own  groans  would  sound  as 
those  of  his  dying  wife  ;  and  he  would  see  her  and  her  boy 
sinking  amidst  waves.  But  to  the  world  he  appeared  as  if 
he  had  never  had  wife  or  child  ;  and  of  his  early  marriage  the 
world  never  knew.  Much-dreaded  solitude  could  not  be 
avoided.  Then  came  the  pangs  of  wakeful  conscience,  or  the 
visions  of  troubled  sleep,  with  physical  suffering  and  mental 
anguish,  intolerable. 

Such  was  George  Frederick  Cooke  in  England,  and  in  tho 
sick  chamber  of  his  long-lost  wife  in  New- York. 

The  romances  with  which  he  amused  himself  and  his  hearers, 
in  hours  of  incipient  ebriation,  always  turned  upon  adventures 
occurring  to  himself  in  America.  This  makes  it  probable,  that 
in  the  musings  upon  his  wife's  flight,  he  suspected  that  the 
United  States  was  the  place  of  her  concealment.  American 
history  was  the  subject  of  his  reading.  He  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  all  the  scenes  of  the  American  revolutionary 
war.  He  delighted  in  imagining  himself  to  have  been  an  actor 
in  them,  and  so  to  represent  himself  to  his  companions.  His 
memory  and  imagination  were  sufficiently  strong  to  produce 
descriptions  and  narrations  that  puzzled  his  hearers,  and  pro 
duced  effects  upon  them,  that  flattered  the  narrator  in 
those  moments  when  reason  and  conscience  were  drugged  by 
the  undermining  opiates  applied  to  the  senses.  It  is  even  pos 
sible  that  this  suspicion,  (relative  to  his  wife's  place  of  refuge,) 
influenced  him,  when,  in  one  of  his  many  moments  of  madness, 
he  inlisted  in  a  marching  regiment,  as  a  common  soldier,  and 
was  only  prevented  being  transported  to  America,  by  the  acci 
dental  discovery  of  his  purpose,  at  the  time,  and  in  the  act 
of  embarkation. 


119 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Jl  morning  after  a  snow-storm. 


"Blow,  blow,  them  winter's  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude." — Shakspeare. 

"For  lordly  want  is  such  a  tyrant  fell, 
That  where  he  rules,  ail  power  he  doth  expel." — Spenser. 

O,  that  men's  ears  should  be 

To  counsel  deaf,  and  not  to  flattery." 

"  Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  a  dream ; 
Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  night, 
That  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth ; 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say,  behold! 
Thejaws  of  darkness  doth  devour  it  up  : 
So  quick-bright  things  come  to  confusion." 


Whereto  serves  merci 


But  to  confront  the  visage  of  oflence." 

"In  the  corrupted  currents  of  this  world, 
Offence's  gilded  hand  may  shove  by  justice  ; 

but  'tis  not  so  above : 

There  is  no  shuffling,  there  the  action  lies 
In  his  true  nature." 

"  Master  Fang,  have  you  entered  the  action?" Shakspeare. 

A  WINTER'S  night  is  long,  even  to  the  happy  healthful 
sleeper  ;  but  to  the  sick,  the  afflicted,  or  the  faithful  watcher, 
it  is  doubly  long.  The  agitated,  suffering  mother,  knew  no 
rest.  The  son,  tormented  by  conflicting  thoughts  and  images, 
knew  not  the  balm  of  sleep. 

The  pious  matron  poured  her  soul  in  prayer.  If,  for  a  mo 
ment,  her  sighs  and  sobs  were  not  heard,  and  her  tears  ceased 
to  flow — if  slumbers  fell  upon  her  exhausted  senses,  visions  ot 
years  long  past,  made  the  reality  of  the  present  more  bitter 
after  the  momentary  cessation  of  pain. 


120  A  morning  after  a  snow-storm. 

Henry,  at  times,  paced  the  floor  ;  at  times  sat  motionless, 
gazing  at  the  pitiable  object  whose  presence  banished  rest, 
and  scarcely  breathing  in  the  hope  that  his  mother  slept ;  but 
when  a  sigh  or  sob  fell  on  his  ear,  he  started. 

"  Can  I  help  you  to  any  thing,  mother  ?" 

"  No,  my  son." 

And  again  he  walked  the  floor,  while  the  past,  the  present, 
and  the  future,  revolved  again  and  again  in  his  troubled  mind. 
The  last  was  a  cloudy  prospect,  but  hope  seldom  deserts  youth, 
and  a  light  broke  through  the  darkness,  and  discovered  the 
form  of  Emma  Portland.  But  the  clouds  of  the  present  encom 
passed  him  around.  His  only  resource  for  the  support  of  his 
mother  through  the  winter,  was  the  scanty  wages  he  received 
as  a  watchman — a  pittance  earned  by  the  sale  of  that  rest  which 
youth  requires.  The  last  quarter's  rent  for  the  hovel  they 
lived  in,  had  not  been  paid,  and  another  had  become  due  that 
day.  He  had  served  the  stipulated  time,  within  a  few  weeks, 
as  a  clerk,  and  had  qualified  himself  for  the  salary,  he  was,  by 
agreement,  to  receive  for  the  succeeding  year,  commencing  at 
the  time  his  present  service  of  probation  ended ;  but,  in  the 
mean  time,  for  months  to  come,  he  had  only  his  present  inade 
quate  resources  to  support  his  mother  and  himself,  and  no 
means  of  pacifying  his  landlord,  even  by  a  payment  of  a  small 
portion  of  the  debt,  without  depriving  his  mother  of  necessaries 
for  subsistence. 

His  father  was  present — was  before  him — was  rolling  in 
wealth — but  he  shrunk  from  him  with  loathing.  He  congratu 
lated  himself  that  he  was  unknown  as  his  son.  There  sat,  in 
deathlike  insensibility,  the  husband  and  father,  who  was  the 
cause  of  misery  to  the  wife  and  son  ;  whose  wife  was  sinking 
prematurely  to  the  grave  prepared  by  him,  and  who  was  him 
self  committing  the  most  cowardly  suicide. 

"  Time  and  the  hour  runs  through  the  longest  day."  And 
so,  the  longest  night.  Day  dawned  on  the  mother  and  son  : 
but  a  winter's  day  on  the  first  of  February  1812  did  not  pro 
mise  much  consolation  to  them,  although  worthy  of  "  joy  and 
gladness."  Long  as  is  the  night  when  the  snow  covers  the 
earth,  and  the  winds  howl  around  the  poor,  the  sleepless,  and 
the  sick,  the  day  will  come  ;  but  it  came  unattended  by  com 
fort  to  Mrs.  Johnson.  She  looked  from  her  curtained  bed, 
a  luxury  yet  preserved  to  her,  and  saw  the  disgusting  object, 
still  sleeping,  who  might  claim  her  as  a  wife,  and  her  beloved 
Henry  as  a  son.  She  turned  again  to  her  pillow,  and  drew 
the  curtains  around  her. 


Jl  morning  after  a  snoiv-storm.  121 

The  fire  had  almost  expired,  and  Henry,  chilled  by  long 
watching,  felt  that  the  room  had  become  cold  :  he  brought 
fuel  from  the  ill-supplied  wood-pile  in  an  adjoining  closet.  He 
brought  it  reluctantly  ;  for  he  saw  that  the  scanty  store  would 
barely  suffice  to  warm  the  room  for  his  sick  mother  for  the 
coming  day.  It  is  only  day  by  day  that  the  poor  can  pur 
chase,  and  that  at  the  dearest  rate,  that  article  necessary  for 
the  support  of  life.  The  city  authorities  aid  the  poor  in  the 
last  extremity  ;  but  it  is  such  as  those  we  are  now  contemp 
lating,  who  are  the  last  to  look  for  such  succour.  They  suffer 
in  silence,  while  the  improvident  and  vicious  complain. 

Freely  could  Henry  Johnson  have  given  to  the  stranger  and 
the  sufferer ;  but  he  reluctantly  threw  down  the  wood  on  the 
hearth,  and  turned  away  again  with  a  degree  of  irritation,  from 
the  man  for  whose  immediate  comfort  he  was  about  to  sacri 
fice  what  might  be  required  for  his  mother's  support.  The 
noise  made  by  the  falling  wood  roused  the  lethargic  sleeper. 
He  looked  with  blood-shot  eyes  sleepily  around  him ;  and  that 
face,  which  native  intellect  had  so  often  brightened  into  all  the 
flashing  changes  of  the  most  energetic  passion — that  counte 
nance,  on  which  thousands  of  admiring  spectators  had  gazed, 
and  testified  their  delight  at  the  intellectual  powers  which  il 
lumined  it  by  shouts  of  applause,  was  a  bloated,  discoloured, 
disgusting  mask,  incapable  of  any  expression  but  that  of  idiotic 
vacancy. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  asked.  "Who  are  you?  0,  ay — the 
watch-house.  Watchman!  Fellow!  I'm  cold — cold — cold — " 

The  last  words  were  muttered  as  to  himself,  and  he  conti 
nued  in  the  same  tone. 

"  The  scoundrel ! — Strike  me — me — in  his  own  house." 

And  his  face  assumed  an  expression  of  despair  and  malignity 
as  he  growled  somewhat  louder,  "  I've  been  ranging  all  night 
in  hell! — Watchman  ! — Get  me  a  bottle  of  brandy  !" 

0,  who  can  feel — who  can  realize  the  agony  which  these 
sounds  conveyed  to  the  hearts  of  the  hearers  ?  To  a  wife  !  To 
a  son !  To  a  mother  ! 

When  we  see  such  objects,  (they  are  even  yet  sometimes 
seen)  and  hear  them  uttering  sounds  of  insensate  joy,  or  des 
perate  and,  perhaps,  blasphemous  defiance.  When  we  ask, 
has  he  a  wife,  and  children  ?  has  he  parents  ?  heart-stricken 
parents  certainly — if  death  has  not  mercifully  removed  them  ! 
How  painful  is  the  question  to  the  benevolent ! 

Henry  cast  a  look  on  the  face  of  the  wretched  man  and  has 
tily  withdrew  his  eyes. 


122  A  morning  after  a  snoiv-stcrm. 

"  Fellow,  I  tell  you  I  am  cold — here's  money — get  me 
brandy!" 

The  young  man  kneeled  down  and  blew  the  fire. 

"  Watchman !  I  say,  get  me  a  quart  of  brandy  !  I  am  cold  I" 

"  I  will  make  more  fire." 

"  Brandy  !  I  say,  brandy  !" 

"  You  have  had  too  much  already." 

"  Ha!  do  you  talk  to  me  !  who  are  you,  sirr?" 

"  A  man,  and  in  my  senses.  A  man  who  has  not  drowned 
the  voice  of  conscience  by  strong  liquor,  or  reduced  himself  by 
indulging  his  vitiated  appetite  to  a  state  of  helplessness  and 
idiotcy.". 

The  youth  stood  erect  before  his  father.  The  returning 
reason  of  the  unhappy  being,  on  whom  his  stem  eye  rested, 
seemed  to  be  quickened  by  its  flash.  His  eyes  brightened 
into  partial  speculation,  and  the  pupils  dilated  as  if  to  gain  dis 
tinct  images  for  the  sluggish  and  diseased  soul  they  served. 
He  gazed  in  Henry's  face — then  around  the  room — at  the 
fire — and  again  on  the  young  man's  face — and  the  muscles  of 
his  own  visage  betrayed  emotions  of  pain  and  confusion. 

"  This  is  not  the  watch-house? — The  watchmen  brought  me 
into  the  watch-house — the  snow — the  street — I  was  sleeping 
on  the  street — yes — it  would  have  been  my  last  sleep — Oh, 
God !— " 

And  he  shuddered  as  awakened  reason  presented  images 
of  the  past,  and  of  the  imagined  future,  mingled  and  twined, 
and  succeeding  each  other  in  mazes,  now  bright,  now  indis 
tinct,  but  all  fearful ;  and  his  face  assuming  the  demoniacal  ex 
pression  which  he  had  studied  for,  and  his  admirers  had  ap 
plauded  in  the  horrible  character  of  the  unnatural  father  in 
Massinger's  play,  he  groaned  as  he  shouted — "  brandy — bring 
me  a  quart  of  brandy  !" 

"  Not  a  drop  sir.  I  see  that  you  can  understand  what  I 
say,  and  I  tell  you  that  you  are  in  the  room  of  a  sick  woman. 
My  mother  !  and  you  must  not  disturb  her  by  this  vociferation. 
You  were  found  perishing  in  the  street,  and  brought  hither  by 
those  who  wished  to  preserve  your  life  ;  you  shall  have  shelter, 
and  warmth,  and  food,  until  your  friends  come  to  you,  or  until 
you  can  remove  yourself,  provided  you  behave  with  decency, 
otherwise " 

During  these  words  the  tragedian  had  rouzed  himself,  and 
sat  erect  on  the  chair  he  occupied,  and  now,  with  a  tone  of 
more  sanity,  he  interrupted  the  speaker  with — "  What  sirr? — 
otherwise  what  V9 


A  morning  after  a  snow-storm.  123 

"  I  will  thrust  you  from  walls  your  presence  pollutes." 

Cooke's  eye  kindled,  and  he  was  preparing  a  reply,  when 
his  attention  was  called  to  the  bed  by  a  loud  groan  from  the 
sufferer  within.  The  fire  blazed  a  momentary  flickering  light, 
and  he  saw  in  the  partial  opening  of  the  curtain,  a  thin  pale 
ghastly  face,  and  heard  a  faint  exclamation  of  "  oh  no  !  no !" 

"Who  is  that? — what's  that!"  cried  the  conscience-stricken 
man,  and  he  crouched  down  in  the  chair,  his  eyes  still  fixed 
on  the  curtain,  now  closed,  and  his  lips  moving  in  convulsive 
horror.  He  then  cast  down  his  head,  closed  his  eye-lids,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  clasped  hands. 

Henry  went  to  the  bed-side,  and  the  son  and  mother  com 
muned  in  whispers. 

Some  minutes  elapsed.  The  aged  misguided  sufferer  seem 
ed  to  sink  into  the  insensibility  from  which  the  awakening  of 
reason  and  consciousness  had  aroused  him.  Suddenly  he  ex 
claimed. 

"  I  saw  her ! — I  saw  her  before  ! — Where  am  1 1 — I  have 
seen  her  and  heard  her  all  night — sick — well — young — old — 
dying — saving  me — cursing  me — " 

The  sick  woman  sobbed  aloud,  and  her  son  advanced  to 
still  the  raving  dreamer. 

"  Hush,  sir,  you  disturb  my  sick  mother." 

44  Your  mother?  That  face — O,  ay,  I  recollect  now — the 
street — the  storm — the  snow — you  preserved  me — you  saved 
me  from  perishing  like  a  famished  cur  in  the  street  of  a  popu 
lous  city — thrust  out  and  dishonoured  by  a  blow — no  matter — 
but  you  were  not  alone — there  was  a  female — a  guiding  and  a 
guarding  angel— she  appeared  alone — and  strove  to  help  me — 
she  disappeared — and  devils  came  in  her  stead — she  appeared 
again — she  hovered  round  me — she  strove  to  save  me  !" 

"  Yes,  there  was  a  female,  one  but  for  whom  you  had  pe 
rished,  a  frozen  outcast  in  the  night  storm.  There  was  an 
angel  that  guided  the  strength  which  rescued  you.  Was  she 
the  first  female  who,  by  her  efforts,  has  rescued  you  from 
death?  Who,  by  her  cares,  has  tried  to  save  you  from  de 
struction?" 

"  Who  are  you  that  ask  that  question?  Fellow,  do  you 
know — Fellow  ! — good  fellow — you  saved  me — give  me — give 
me — some  water — some  water." 

He  threw  himself  back  in  the  sick  woman's  chair,  for  it  was 
that  he  sat  in,  and  Henry,  softened  to  pity,  flew  to  present  a 
glass  of  cold  and  refreshing  water  to  his  burning  lips. 

Again  the  old  man  shut  his  eyes,  seemingly  offended  by  the 


124  A  morning  after  a  snow-storm. 

light  which  now  streamed  in  through  the  ill-closed  shutters,  and 
silence  again  reassumed  her  reign,  only  interrupted  by  the 
noises  of  the  busy  street,  the  cries  of  those  who  administer  to 
the  comforts  of  others,  and  the  tinkling  of  sleigh-bells,  from 
the  hackman's,  the  cartman's,  or  the  milkman's,  sleds. 

Henry  walked  the  floor,  or  occasionally  approached  the  bed 
of  his  mother.  He  suppressed  his  groans.  He  knew  that  the 
day  had  commenced  on  which  his  landlord  had  threatened  to 
distrain  for  rent.  He  knew  that  he  could  only  offer  a  small 
portion  saved  from  the  wages  of  night  watches.  He  knew 
that  his  all,  and  the  savings  of  his  mother's  industry,  had  been 
exhausted  by  the  expenses  attendant  on  a  sick  bed.  And  now 
he  knew  that  his  father,  rolling  in  riches,  and  wallowing  in  de 
structive  excess,  was  before  him. — The  thought  occurred, 
'•  shall  he  be  the  means  of  our  deliverance — has  his  vices 
driven  him  unknowingly  to  save  the  being  who  suffers  for  his 
sins  ?"  But  he  spurned  it  from  him.  "  Rather  let  her  go  to 
the  poor-house — she  is  entitled  to  that  shelter — rather  let  us 
perish — perish ! — am  I  not  young  and  strong  ? — Is  there  not  a 
God  above  us? — but  my  mother! — she  shall  to  the  hospital, 
rather  than  receive  aid  from " 

These  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  street- 
door,  and  Henry  went  out  of  the  room. 

Cooke  was  now  thoroughly  awake,  although  still  under  the 
influence  of  the  poison  which  was  destroying  soul  and  body. 
Thought  had  been  aroused,  and  retrospection  tormented  him. 
He  then  recurred  to  the  present  situation,  and  felt  a  wish  to  re 
pay  the  poor  people  who  had  succoured  him.  His  attention 
was  called  to  the  voices  of  the  supposed  watchman,  and  some 
other  person  at  the  door.  He  heard  sentences  which,  as  his 
senses  became  more  acute,  he  put  together,  and  formed  the 
conclusion  that  a  bailiff  was  demanding  rent,  and  threatening  a 
sale  of  furniture.  He  looked  around  and  saw  tokens  of  po 
verty,  and  some  remains  of  a  better  state,  and  proofs  of  taste 
above  the  state  of  the  habitually  poor.  He  listened  to  the 
words  of  those  without. 

"  Speak  lower — she  is  very  ill." 

"  He  says  I  must  sell  to-day." 

"  I  will  write  to  him  again.     I  can  pay " 

'•  He  says  it  will  not  do." 

"  She  is  very  low— kill  her—" 

"  Hospital—" 

"  She  cannot  be  moved. " 

"  Gracious  heaven!"  thought  Cooke,  "  are  they  going  to  turn 


Ji  morning  after  a  snow-storm.  125 

poor  sick  creature  out  into  the  storm,  from  which  she  has  shel 
tered  me;"  and  he  strove  to  rise  from  his  seat,  but  his  abused 
and  stiffened  limbs  failed,  and  he  sunk  down  again — he  heard 
the  voices  louder. 

"  I  must  obey  my  orders." 

"  I  will  resist/  She  shall  not  be  removed  !  I  have  another 
proposition — " 

11  I  can't  be  going  backward  and  forward  day  after  day." 

«*  Who's  there  1"  shouted  Cooke.    "  Come  in !" 

"  I  will  write  to  him — I  will  compensate  you.  A  day's 
delay—" 

"  Who's  there?  I  say?" 

Henry  hearing  Cooke's  voice,  and  fearing  that  his  mother 
would  be  more  disturbed  by  that  than  even  by  the  presence  of 
the  constable,  came  into  the  room  with  him. 

"  Henry,  come  hither,  my  son."  The  young  man  obeyed, 
and  the  officer  walked  to  the  fire  and  placed  himself  between 
it  and  the  squalid  figure  in  the  chair,  of  which  he  took  no  no 
tice,  until  he  was  addressed  with  the  imperative,  "  Fellow,  take 
off  your  hat !" 

"  For  what?" 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  fellow?  I  am  George  Frederick 
Cooke." 

<T  Poh  !  poh !  hold  your  tongue." 

"  Stand  from  before  me !" 

"  Well,  well ;    I  wont  keep  the  fire  from  you,  poor  devil  I" 

*{  Poor  devil ! — Yes,  yes  ;    I  am,  I  am !" 

"  Well,  Mr.  Johnson,  if  you  have  any  thing  to  offer,  do  it 
soon.  I  will  go  to  the  landlord  once  more,  for  I  do  not  want 
to  inconvenience  the  old  woman ;  but,  right's  right,  and  the 
rent  must  be  paid,  and  /  must  be  paid." 

lf  Sit  down,  if  you  please,  I  will  write  once  more  to  Mr. 
Jones."  And  Henry  took  from  a  hanging  shelf  (on  which 
were  a  few  books)  some  paper  and  an  ink-stand,  and  sat  down  to 
make  his  proposal  to  his  landlord,  with  little  hope  but  of  a  short 
respite,  and  time  to  think  and  to  remove  his  father  from  the 
scene  of  his  mother's  suffering. 

In  the  mean  time  Cooke  put  a  bank  note  into  the  constable's 
hand,  unperceived  by  Henry,  and  gained  information  immedi 
ately,  from  the  astonished  officer,  of  the  sum  for  which  the 
landlord's  warrant  was  issued. 

Henry  having  written  a  short  note  carried  it  to  his  mother. 
It  being  now  broad-day,  she  read  it  without  opening  the 
curtains. 

"  This  will  not  do,  my  son.     Why  not  apply  to  your  em- 

YOL.  II.  6 


126  JH.  morning  after  a  snow-storm. 

ployer.  He  has  promised  that  after  next  May  you  shall  have 
a  salary  in  his  counting-house,  and  he  would,  if  he  knew  our 
situation,  advance  enough  to  relieve  us." 

44  Mother,  I  cannot.  He  reproached  me  lately,  on  finding 
me  asleep  at  my  desk,  and  accused  me  of  dissipation ;  suppos 
ing  my  sluggish  senses  were  overpowered  in  consequence  of 
night- watchings  of  a  very  different  complexion  from  the  reality. 
I  cannot  apply  to  him.  This  application  to  Mr.  Jones  will 
gain  us  time." 

"  Young  man  ! — Come  here  !"  said  Cooke  in  a  tone  of  com 
mand. 

Henry  obeyed ;  unconscious  of  the  mixed  motives  which 
guided  his  steps. 

44  I  am  George  Frederick  Cooke !"  Henry  was  about  to 
retire  again  with  an  air  and  feeling  of  disgust.  t4  I  will  be 
heard,  sirr,"  continued  the  excited  tragedian.  "  I  have  a  right 
to  be  heard  and  to  be  obeyed."  Henry  shuddered.  Cooke 
continued.  4<  You  have  saved  my  life,  sirr,  and  your  mother 
has  sheltered  me  in  this  house,  from  which  your  landlord 
threatens  to  eject  her,  and  to  snatch  the  bed  from  under  her  on 
which  she  is,  perhaps,  languishing  in  her  last  sickness,  and  for 
the  paltry  sum  of  fifty  dollars  for  two  quarters  rent.  I  wil  pay 
the  rent.  Give  me  the  pen  and  ink,  and  I  will  write  an  order 
for  the  money." 

44  No." 

<4  Why  not,  sirr  t" 

44  My  mother  cannot,  shall  not,  receive  aid  from — from — 
you.11 

44  From  me,  sirr?  George  Frederick  Cooke!  Constable, 
give  me  the  table,  and  pen,  and  ink,  and  paper." 

44  No.     I  say  no.     Never  !" 

44  Henry !" 

44  Mother !"  and  he  again  shrouded  himself  within  the  cur 
tains  of  his  agitated,  almost  exhausted  mother. 

The  constable,  at  the  request  of  Cooke,  placed  the  table  and 
writing  materials  before  him ;  he  attempted  to  write  an  order  on 
the  treasurer  of  the  theatre  for  fifty  dollars ;  his  hand  would 
not  obey  his  will ;  he  gave  an  unintelligible  icrawl  to  the  of 
ficer. 

44  What  this  ?     This  won't  do." 

It  was  handed  back  and  torne.  Cooke  then  thought  of 
SpifFard,  and  in  a  scrawl,  scarcely  legible,  he  wrote  a  few 
words  to  him,  desiring  him  to  come  to  him  quickly. 

The   little  black  girl  had  by  this  time  ended    her  second 


A  morning  after  a  snow-storm.  127 

peaceful  slumber,  and  had  come  forth  from  her  dormitory  and 
taken  her  place  by  the  fire. 

Cooke  having  "finished  his  scrawl,  now  first  saw  the  child's 
black  face,  and  eyes  wide  open  and  fixed  on  him.  "  Come 
hither,  blackey,  can  you  take  this  to  Mr.  SpifTardl" 

44  If  misses  pleases." 

Henry  again  came  forward,  and  in  a  collected  manner  ad 
dressed  his  father.  "  Mr.  Spiffard  was  assisting  in  bringing 
you  hither,  sir,  and  has  promised  to  be  here  again  this  morning. 
He  will  remove  you  from  hence." 

"  He  will  bring  the  money,  and  discharge  this  debt  and  this 
constable." 

"  No.  That  he  shall  not.  All  we  ask  of  you  is  your  ab 
sence,  and  that  you  will  forget  that  you  were  ever  sheltered  by 
this  roof.-' 

As  Henry  Johnson  now  stood  proudly  rejecting  the  assist 
ance  offered  by  the  man  who  had  wronged  his  mother,  his  tall 
and  athletic  person  drawn  up  to  its  utmost  height,  gave  addi 
tional  dignity  to  a  face  which  would  not  be  selected  by  the 
sculptor  or  the  painter  as  a  model  of  beauty,  but  rather  for  one 
of  power;  a  model  for  a  leader  in  the  field,  or  in  the  council. 
The  reader  may  observe,  in  Sully's  portrait  of  Cooke,  that 
breadth  between  the  eyes,  at  the  junction  of  the  nose  with  the 
forehead,  which  has  been  supposed  to  characterize  strength  of 
intellect.  It  may  be  seen  likewise  in  the  portrait  of  \V  ashing- 
ton,  by  Stuart,  and  in  Ciracchi's  bust  of  the  hero.  This  same 
feature  marked  the  face  of  Henry  Johnson,  combined  with  a 
fine  open  broad  forehead,  large  hazle  eyes,  and  mouth  of  un 
common  beauty,  in  all  which  he  resembled  his  mother. 

The  extraordinary  situation  in  which  Cooke  found  himself 
placed,  (extraordinary  even  for  him,  and  as  fie  understood  it, 
but  beyond  measure  more  so  in  reality),  consciousness  of  the 
present,  and  indistinct  recollections  of  the  past  night,  seemed 
to  recall  his  mental  faculties  to  their  healthful  operation,  and 
he  spoke  with  the  tone  of  restored  reason. 

"  Young  man  !  what  do  you  mean  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  a 
beast,  devoid  of  reason  or  gratitude  ?  Do  you  think  I  can 
ever  forget  the  obligation  I  am  under  to  you  and  your 
mother  ?  Am  I  not  under  the  greatest  possible  obligation  to 
her?" 

"  You  are — you  are  !" 

"  Am  I  not  bound  to  assist  her  1" 

**  Yes  ;  you  are,  indeed  !     More " 


128  Jl  morning  after  a  snow-stonn. 

"  I  owe  my  life  to  you  and  to  her.  And  do  you  deny  me 
the  privilege  of  doing  my  duty  towards  her?" 

"  You  cannot." 

"  Am  I  not  rich  ?" 

"  Rich !  rich  !  Money  !  riches  and  money !  Thus,  in 
your  world,  everything  is  swallowed  up  in  the  thought  of 
money.  Money  covers  all — sanctions  all.  Can  your  riches 
restore  to  that  dying  woman  the  years  of  peace  and  health 
which  a  ruffian's  baseness  has  robbed  her  of?  Can  your 
fifty  dollars  pay  her  for  country — friends — peace  of  mind — 
health?" 

"  Henry !  Henry  !" 

4'  I  have  done.  Forgive  me,  mother !  Keep  your  riches, 
sir.  We  will  do  as  we  have  done,  without  your — without  them! 
You  will  be  removed  to  your  home,  and  then  we  shall  be  re 
stored  to  that  quiet  which  is  necessary  to  the  sick — perhaps 
the  dying." 

"  But  you  want  a  friend " 

"  Friend  ?  We  shall  find  a  friend.  We  have  a  friend  who 
has  never  deserted  us,  and  never  will  desert  us,  as  long  as  we 
confide  in  him,  and  do  our  duty  towards  his  creatures." 

The  energy  of  the  young  man — the  discrepancy  between  his 
rough  watchman's  dress,  and  his  comparatively  polished  lan 
guage — the  mystery  which,  to  Cooke's  apprehension,  appeared 
to  surround  him  and  his  mother — combining  with  the  agitation 
and  confusion  existing  in  the  old  man's  mind,  now  overwhelm 
ed  him.  He  sunk  back  again  in  the  sick  lady's  chair,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  But  this  won't  do  for  me,  Mr.  Johnson,"  said  the  consta 
ble.  "  I  must  do  my  duty.  Why  not  take  this  old  man's  offer, 
and  let  me  go." 

44  Never,  sir !  never  !  If  Mr.  Jones  will  not  consent  to  the 
proposition  in  my  note,  you  must  do  your  duty.  Mr  mother 
can  die  in  the  hospital." 

NOTE. — Two  facts  are  used  by  the  author  which  are  recorded  iu  the  me 
moirs  of  Cooke.  He  was  found  in  the  street  covered  with  snow  at  mid 
night,  and  conveyed  by  watchmen  to  a  poor  woman's  house ;  and  he  not 
only  offered  but  actually  paid  a  quarter's  rent,  and  prevented  the  sale  of 
the  poor  widow's  furniture. 


129 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Some  sunshine. 

"  Look  how  we  can,  or  sad,  or  merrily, 
Interpretation  will  misquote  our  looks." 

"  0,  how  full  of  briars  is  this  working-day  world.'' 

"  Sweet  afe  the  uses  of  adversity. 
The  icy  fang, 

And  churlish  Chiding  of  the  winter's  wind, 
Which  when  it  bites,  and  blows  upon  my  body. 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  1  smile  and  say 
This  is  no  flattery." 

"  I  am  strong  and  lusty  : 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  to  my  blood — 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter3 
Frosty,  but  kindly." 

(!  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
Which  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune, 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows  and  in  miseries." 

u  'Tis  not  enough  to  help  the  feeble  up, 
But  to  support  him  after." — Shakspeare. 

SPIFFARD'S  first  thoughts  on  awaking,  were  occupied  by 
the  events  of  the  past  night,  and  the  recollection  of  the  situa 
tion  in  which  he  left  Mr.  Cooke.  The  storm  was  over.  Clear, 
bright  and  cold  was  the  morning.  He  was  soon  equipped  for 
a  walk  through  the  untrodden  snow,  and  proceeded  without 
delay  to  Mrs.  Johnson's.  Before  he  entered  that  lady's  door, 
he  very  unexpectedly  encountered  a  friend,  with  whom  he  had 
had  no  communication  for  some  weeks. 

Mr.  Littlejohn's  attention  had  been  occupied,  as  a  merchant, 
by  the  difficulties  of  "  the  times,"  and,  as  a  father,  by  the  joy 
ful  recovery  of  his  son  and  his  re-establishment  under  his  roof. 
Restored  to  perfect  health,  he  now  resided  at  home,  and  occu- 


•t 
130  Some  sunshine. 

pied  himself  in  those  studies  which  belonged  to  his  clerical 
profession,  and  accorded  with  his  serious  character.  For  the 
present  he  withheld  himself  from  the  duties  of  public  instruc 
tion,  as  he  knew  that  the  nature  of  his  late  malady  might,  in 
the  public  mind,  injure  or  weaken  the  effect  of  his  exertions, 
until  time  should  cast  his  veil  over  the  past.  The  presence  of 
the  son  in  bodily  and  mental  health  was  (more  than  his  mercan 
tile  prosperity),  a  subject  of  congratulation  to  the  father. 

Among  the  eccentricities  of  the  elder  Littlejohn  was  a  habit 
of  early  rising  and  strenuous  pedestrian  exercises  before 
breakfast,  at  all  seasons  of  the  year  and  in  all  weathers.  In 
summer  he  enjoyed  the  hour  before  the  sun  had  overpowered 
the  freshness  of  the  morning  air,  but  with  his  rays  had  called 
forth  the  notes  of  a  thousand  birds  in  the  shades  of  Greenwich, 
and  gilded  the  broad  expanse  of  waters  where  the  two  rivers 
meet  in  our  beautiful  bay.  In  winter,  he  did  not  wait  for  the 
lazy  luminary,  but  as  soon  as  his  approach  afforded  sufficient 
light,  the  old  man,  already  long  prepared,  issued  to  the  cold 
and  nipping  air,  and  by  a  rapid  walk  prepared  himself  for  an 
early  American  breakfast  of  coffee  and  buckwheat-cakes. 

On  this  clear  and  cold  morning,  Mr.  Littlejohn  was  as  usual 
out  for  a  walk  of  three  or  four  miles,  and  making  the  first 
tracks  in  the  snow  that  had  fallen  during  the  night.  Not  far 
from  the  door  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  humble  dwelling,  he  was  sur 
prised  to  see  his  young  friend  Spiffard  approaching  Broadway ; 
surprised,  because  he  knew  that  players  are  obliged  to  sit  up  late, 
especially  those  of  the  sock,  and  after  returning  late  from  the 
theatre,  being  fatigued  and  exhausted,  usually  take  late  sup 
pers  ;  and  he  knew,  that  although  a  water-drinker  would  not 
be  so  likely  to  over-eat  or  over-sleep  himself  as  a  wine-bibber, 
yet  "  late  to  bed  makes  late  to  rise."  He  turned  to  meet  him. 

"  How's  this,  my  young  friend  ?  I  never  greeted  you  in  my 
morning  rambles  before.  Have  you  become  an  early  riser  ?" 

"  Not  usually  so  early  as  to-day,  sir." 

"  I  must  reproach  you  for  neglecting  me.  It  is  long  since 
you  called  upon  me.  My  son  is  now  at  home  with  me." 

"And  well,  sir?" 

"  Perfectly  restored.  Come  and  see  him.  He  will  be 
pleased,  now,  to  be  acquainted  with  you.  Your  profes 
sions  are  supposed  not  to  assimilate,  but  I  think  your  minds 
would." 

"  Society  has  raised  a  bar  between  the  preacher  and  the 
player ;  perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  had  it  never  ex 
isted  ;  but  as  it  is.  I  would  not  advise  your  son  or  any  other 


Some  sunshine.  131 

clergyman  to  step  over  it.     When  players,  by  their  conduct, 
remove  the  bar,  then  let  the  intercourse  commence." 

"  That,  you  have  done  ;  therefore  be  it  as  you  say.  Come, 
shall  we  take  our  walk  together  ?" 

"  I  am  on  an  errand  of  business,  sir ;  and  business  in  which 
I  think  you  will  be  interested  and  become  a  partner." 

"  Indeed  !  I  should  not  have  thought  that  a  young  actor 
and  an  old  merchant  would  have  entered  into  a  business  part 
nership  upon  so  short  an  acquaintance." 

"  I  know,  sir,  that  there  is  one  feeling  that  is  common  to  us 
— a  feeling  that  young  and  old  ought  equally  to  partake  of — 
the  feeling  of  love  to  our  neighbour,  which  generates  pity 
for  hi*  weakness,  and  the  desire  to  strengthen  and  relieve 
him.  It  is  a  business  of  this  nature  to  which  I  invite  your  part 
nership." 

"  I  believe  we  understand  each  other  pretty  well,  young 
man  ;  but,  before  I  agree  to  open  a  partnership  account  with 
you,  I  must  know  something  more  particular  than  the  mere 
nature  of  the  speculation.  Communicate." 

"  I  will,  sir.  If  you  will  turn  about  with  me,  I  will  show  you 
the  contrast  of  sickness  by  surfeit,  and  sickness  from  want." 
The  merchant  took  Spiffard's  arm,  who  retraced  his  steps, 
(for  he  had  advanced  towards  Broadway  to  meet  the  old  gentle 
man),  and  they  proceeded  to  the  place  where  he  had  left  Cooke. 

"  Here,  sir,  we  shall  find  the  unfortunate  man  who  attracted 
your  attention  by  his  excesses  at  Cato's,  and  by  his  urbanity  at 
Doctor  Cadwallader's." 

"  Here !" 

"  In  this  abode  of  sickness  and  poverty." 

"  Brought  here  by  his  benevolent  wish  to  relieve  it  ?" 

"  Brought  here  by  others  while  in  a  state  of  insensibility  ;  a 
wretched  outcast,  perishing  on  the  pavement  in  the  storm  of 
last  night.  This  place,  the  residence  of  a  poor  woman,  sick, 
and,  I  fear,  dying,  was  the  nearest  place  found  open  to  receive 
him." 

"  But  how — why " 

"  You  shall  leai'n  the  whole.  Let  us  enter  the  house.  He 
was  saved  by  what  is  called  accident ;  or  the  idol  of  the  public 
would  have  been  found  frozen  to  death  in  the  streets  of  New- 
York,  surrounded  by  the  well-warmed  mansions  of  his  idol 
aters." 

This  meeting  of  the  young  actor  and  the  old  merchant  hap 
pened,  by  what  we  call  chance,  at  the  moment  that  Henry 
Johnson  was  persuading  the  constable  to  carry  a  note  to  the 


132  Some  sunshine. 

landlord,  requesting  a  suspension  of  the  law's  dread  mandate? 
and  the  creditor's  unchristian  cruelty. 

'*  She  shall  not  die  in  a  hospital !"  cried  Cooke,  throw 
ing  off  a  handkerchief  with  which  he  had  covered  his  face,  and 
glaring  at  the  young  man  like  a  tiger.  "  I  will  pay  every  debt 
she  owes.  The  shelter  of  her  house  has  preserved  my  life — 
not  that  it  is  worth  much  !  No  matter  !  I  owe  my  life  to  her 
and  to  you.  I'll  pay  my  debt  by  paying  her  debts  !  And,  by 
God  !  she  shall  not  die  in  a  hospital !" 

"  I  neither  drink  nor  swear,  sir.  The  being  on  whose  will 
my  mother  relies,  may  relieve  her  present  distress.  From  you 
she  shall  receive  neither  favour  nor  relief!" 

*'  Do  you  know  who  I  am,  sir  ?" 

"  Too  well !" 

"  Who  shall  prevent  my  paying  her  landlord,  and  saving  her 
from  the  distress  he  threatens  1  Who  ?" 

41  Her  son!     Her  son  will  not  suffer  hrt"  to  be  — " 

What  the  excited  youth  might  have  said  was  lost.  A  second 
and  louder  knocking  at  the  door,  (the  first  was  unheard,  except 
by  the  little  black  girl,  owing  to  the  high-raised  voices  of  the 
father  and  son ;  the  louder  knocking)  cut  short  the  angry  diaT- 
logue  ;  and  the  girl  opened  the  door,  and  Mr.  Littlejohn,  fol 
lowed  by  Spiffard,  entered  the  apartment. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  Henry  Johoson  had  not  had  either 
opportunity  or  inclination,  during  the  rapid  succession  of  events 
so  distressing  to  him  and  his  mother,  to  change  his  watchman's 
dress  for  that  suited  to  the  counting-house  ;  and  he  now  stood 
in  the  presence  of,  and  fronting,  Mr.  Littlejohn,  in  the  rough 
costume  of  a  guardian  of  the  night,  except  that  the  leathern 
helmet  had  been  removed.  Their  eyes  met,  and  both  started. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  sir  ?"  said  the  merchant. 

Henry  was  silent. 

"  This  watchman  came  hither  with  Mr.  Cooke-,"  said  Spif 
fard. 

"  Watchman,  indeed  !  Both,  I  suppose,  from  the  same  scene 
of  masquerading  riot." 

"  He  is  the  watchman  that  — " 

'*  He  is  a  clerk  in  my  counting-house." 

Spiffard  was  silent ;  Littlejohn  proceeded — 

"  So,  Mr.  Johnson,  my  unwelcome  suspicions  are  confirmed. 
You  have  been  masquerading  with  this  man  of  noted  intemper 
ance.  Your  unseemly  situation  in  the  counting-house  is  fully 
explained.  My  good  opinion  of  you  has  been  on  the  wane  for 
some  time,  and  this  discovery  seems  likely  to  prove  a  death- 


Some  sunshine.  133 

blow  to  your  character  :  the  blow  that  must  sever  us  ;  and  that, 
too,  when  your  period  of  probation  is  nearly  past ;  when,  in  a 
very  short  time,  you  would  have  been  entitled  to  claim  a  salary." 

The  undenied  assertion,  that  the  pretended  watchman  was  a 
clerk  to  the  merchant,  kept  SpirTard  silent.  Cooke  paid  no 
attention  to  what  was  passing. 

Although  Henry  Johnson  had  been  long  known  to  Emma 
Portland,  he  was  not  known  to  Spiffard,  who,  it  will  be  recol 
lected,  had  been  but  a  short  time  an  inmate  of  the  family  of 
Mrs.  Epsom  ;  and  during  that  time  occupied  by  perturbed 
thoughts,  and  associating  with  men  unknown  to  Henry  John 
son.  In  the  character  of  a  watchman,  for  such  he  had  acted,  as 
well  as  appeared,  during  the  events  of  the  night,  (and  even 
now,)  he  did  not  recognise  a  youth  who  had  only  been  seen 
and  not  noticed.  He  stood  a  perplexed  and  silent  beholder  of 
a  scene,  to  him  as  extraordinary  as  those  he  had  witnessed  re 
lative  to  Cooke.  That  he  was  one  of  the  watchmen  who  had 
assisted  in  bringing  the  tragedian  to  this  house,  he  knew — and 
nothing  more. 

Henry  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Littlejohn,  but  unabash 
ed.  His  colour  changed  frequently,  coming  and  going  with 
the  changing  emotions  which  seemed  almost  to  suffocate  him. 
Mr.  Littlejohn  continued  : 

'*  Twice — nay,  thrice,  have  I  found  you  asleep  over  your 
desk.  You  gave  me  no  excuse — no  explanation  ;  I  now  see 
that  there  was  none  to  give.  I  laboured  to  find  excuses  for 
you.  Your  confusion,  and  the  appearance  of  your  face,  sug 
gested  a  thought  that  I  dismissed,  but  now  see  might  have  been 
entertained  ;  for  the  night  reveller  will  seek  support  from  that 
which  has  disqualified  him  for  the  labours  of  the  day." 

"  Sir  !"  the  youth  exclaimed,  indignantly,  but  checked  him 
self,  and  again  became  silent.  His  face  was  flushed — its  mus 
cles  quivered,  but  his  eye  quailed  not.  It  was  fixed  on  that  of 
his  accuser.  The  merchant  proceeded  : 

44  Yes,  sir !  What  other  inference  could  I  draw  from  your 
appearance  and  conduct  ?  What  else  could  I  think  ?  Either 
that  you  was  under  the  influence  of  stupifying  poison,  or  that 
you  had  been  watching  the  preceding  night ;  passing  the  hours 
of  natural  rest  without  necessary  sleep." 

'*  It  is  true,  sir.  You  had  surmised  the  truth.  I  had  been 
•watching.  I  had  been  sleepless." 

"  Is  this  a  garb  for  a  clerk  in  the  counting-house  of  Little- 
John  and  Company  1"  The  merchant  paused.  For  a  moment, 
Henry  made  no  reply ;  then  calmly  said:  "It  is  true,  sir, 
that  you  have  surmised  the  cause  of  my  sleeping  at  my  desk  ; 

6* 


134  Some  sunshine. 

but  it  was  after  labouring  faithfully  for  hours,  and  fulfilling  my 
assigned  task.  It  is  true,  as  you  supposed,  that  the  cause  was 
sleepless  nights  ;  and  for  the  sake  of  the  cause  of  my  sleepless 
nights,  I  will  now  show  you  the  cause.  See  it  here,  sir !" 

He  stepped  to  his  mother's  curtains,  and,  for  a  moment, 
threw  them  open.  He  closed  them  ;  arid  again  resumed  a 
firm,  but  respectful  attitude. 

"  There  lies  the  cause.  A  sick,  and,  I  fear,  a  dying  mother. 
As  for  this  dress,  which  draws  upon  me  the  titles  of  masque- 
rader  and  reveller :  this  dress,  unfit  as  you  deem  it,  for  the 
associate  of  a  counting-house,  has  fitted  me  to  associate  with 
brave  and  manly  companions,  in  an  honest  and  honourable 
vocation.  This  dress  fitted  me  for  the  duties  of  the  sleepless 
nights  which  enabled  me  to  procure  necessaries  for  one  who 
had  laboured  through  life  to  give  me  an  education  and  place 
in  society  that  might  guard  me  from  vice  or  crime.  Those 
sleepless  nights  which  caused  my  strength  to  fail  after  the  du 
ties  of  the  day,  and  dulled  my  senses,  and  suffused  my  eyes 
with  blood,  were  endured  cheerfully  for  a  sick  mother — and 
such  a  mother  !  A  reveller  and  a  drunkard  !  If  I  might  feel 
pride  for  having  done  a  duty,  1  should  be  more  proud  of  this 
dress,  than  of  that  which  fits  me  for  your  counting-house  !" 

"  My  son !  my  son !  forbear !"  said  the  afflicted  mother. 

There  was  silence  after  these  words,  and  it  continued 
for  what  appeared  to  be  a  minute ;  '  only  that  Cooke,  on 
hearing  the  exclamation  of  Mrs.  Johnson,  whispered  to  SpifTard, 
"What's  that?  Who  spoke  1"  and  all  was  again  silent. 

Littlejohn  was  much  affected.  His  agitation  seemed  to 
prevent  speaking  ;  but  with  an  effort,  he  at  length  exclaimed  : 

"  Young  man !  young  man  !  you  have  humbled  me  !  How 
little  do  we  know  of  what  is  beneath  the  surface  !  What  1  have 
I  so  mistaken  you,  and  the  causes  of  your  actions  ]  Have  I 
done  you,  by  thought  and  word,  such  base  injustice  1  For  your 
mother — for  your  sick,  widowed  mother,  you  have  watched 
night  after  night,  to  earn  a  pittance  which  our  niggardly  econo 
my  denied,  though  justly  due  to  your  daily  toil  at  the  desk  !" 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Henry,  (his  eyes  filling  with  tears  ;)  "  Now 
you  do  yourself  injustice.  You  gave  me  an  opportunity  of 
acquiring  that  knowledge  which  would  entitle  me  to  wages 
sufficient  for  my  mother's  support." 

Littlejohn  appeared  not  to  hear  him.  "  I,  who  have  flattered 
myself  that  I  was  an  honest  and  a  just  man  ;  a  man  of  some 
observation  and  penetration  into  character — I  have  accused 
you  of  revelry,  dissipation,  and  even  odious  ebriety — because 


Some  sunshine.  135 

overwearied  nature  sunk  under  the  weight  filial  piety  had  laid 
upon  it." 

Cooke  repeatedly  had  inquired  wildly,  "  Whose  voice  was 
that  ?"  and  Spiffard  was  employed  in  persuading  him  to  return 
to  the  house  from  which  he  had  wandered  m  the  storm  ;  but 
his  only  reply  was,  "  never  !  never  !"  Then  again  his  confused 
thoughts  reverting  to  Mrs.  Johnson's  voice,  he  would  ask, 
"  Who  spoke  ?  what  voice  was  that?" 

When  Littlejohn  ceased  speaking,  he  appeared  deeply  affect 
ed.  Henry  was  silent.  The  silence  caused  Cooke  to  look 
around  him,  and  seeing  the  constable  sitting  opposite  to  him, 
by  the  fire,  very  much  at  his  ease,  and  totally  inattentive  to 
what  was  passing,  he  cried  out  in  his  harshest  and  most  dis 
cordant  tone  of  voice,  "  Get  up,  sir  !" 

The  officer  remembering  that  he  had  pocketed  the  bank-bill, 
and  not  willing  to  provoke  inquiry,  obeyed  with  wondrous 
alacrity,  without  speaking. 

"  Go  about  your  blood-sucking  business,  elsewhere,  you 
harpy.  I  command  you  !  Avoid  the  house  !  Avaunt !  I — 
George  Frederick  Cooke,  command  you  !  I  pay  the  rent  !" 

"  Never !"  said  Henry. 

"  What,  Mr.  Hipps,"  said  Littlejohn  ;  "  are  you  here  to  dis 
train  for  rent  V  ' 

"  Yes,  sir,"  respectfully  answered  the  officer, 

"  How  much  is  due  1" 

"  Fifty  dollars,  sir,  for  two  quarters." 

"  I  will  be  answerable." 

"  I  cannot  repay  you,  sir,"  said  Henry. 

"  I  pay  the  rent !"  shouted  Cooke.     He  was  unattended  to. 

"  You  shall  repay  me  out  of  your  salary." 

"  My  salary  ?" 

"  The  highest  the  firm  gives  is  a  thousand  dollars.  That  is 
yours,  commencing  from  last  August.  It  was  in  August  I  first 
saw  you  sleeping  at  the  desk.  It  was  then  I  first  did  you  in 
justice.  A  half  year's  wages  are  due.  Take  care  that  your 
mother  has  the  best  medical  advice.  I  need  not  give  you  a 
charge  as  to  any  thing  else ;  but,  by  all  means,  call  in  Doctor 
McLean.  I  shall  deduct  the  fifty  dollars  from  the  half-year's 
salary,  and  send  you  a  check  for  the  balance,  for  you  must  not 
come  to  the  counting-house  to-day.  Good  by  !  You  forgive 
me !  But  no  more  masquerades,"  said  the  benevolent  mer 
chant,  smiling  through  tears,  "  and  no  more  sleeping  at  the 
desk.  Mr.  Spiffard — you  and  I  and  Henry  and  my  son,  must 
meet  soon  over  a  dish  of  tea,  or  a  sparkling  glass  of  water." 


136  -Some  sunshine. 

And  taking  Henry's  hand,  he  pressed  it,  repeating,  "  forgive 
me  ;"  then  pointing  to  his  mother,  said,  "  go  to  her ;"  and  he 
ran,  rather  than  walked  out  of  the  house,  without  noticing  the 
person  he  came  into  it  to  see. 

The  tide  of  which  the  poet  speaks  had  now  commenced  its 
flood — the  flood  that  leads  to  fortune.  Henry  Johnson  was 
ready  to  embark  upon  the  favouring  current.  Had  he  not 
himself  caused  the  propitious  flood?  Does  not  every  man  cre 
ate  the  flood  of  his  own  fortune  1 

Henry  approached  the  bed,  took  his  mother's  hand,  and  sat 
down  by  her,  enshrouding  both  by  the  curtain.  Mr.  Hipps, 
the  constable,  slunk  unperceived  away.  Spiffard  very  soon 
engaged  a  sleigh  that  happened  to  be  passing,  and  fortunately 
a  covered  sleigh  ;  for  without  hat  or  overcoat,  Cooke,  (who 
had  consented  to  go  to  Jemmy  Bryden's),  would  have  made  a 
pitiable  appearance  by  daylight  in  the  streets.  Spiflard  inter 
rupted  the  conversation  of  the  mother  and  son. 

"  Mr.  Johnson,  I  have  seen  and  heard  enough  to  make  me 
wish  to  know  more  of  you.  I  have  seen  you  before,  without 
knowing  you  ;  and,  in  the  confusion  of  the  last  night,  had  no 
recollection  of  ever  having  met  you." 

"  We  shall  meet  again,  Mr.  SpifTard.  Your  character  is 
well  known  to  me,  and  I  sincerely  respect  you." 

"  At  present,  this  gentleman  must  be  attended  to." 

*'  The  sooner  he  is  removed  from  this  place " 

"  The  better.     I  think  so." 

Cooke  appeared  unable  to  comprehend  what  had  taken  place 
in  regard  to  the  rent,  and  insisted  upon  paying  it.  With  diffi 
culty  SpifTard  quieted  him,  and  removed  him  from  a  place  to 
which  he  had  been  brought  by  means  so  strange,  and  for 
purposes  hidden  from  all  but  the  benevolent  cause  and  source 
of  all  good. 

Henry  had  sunk  again  on  the  bed-side,  and  drawn  the  cur 
tain  about  him. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  he,  *'  we  are  unknown  to  him  ;  we 
must  remain  unknown." 

"  He  wished  to  assist — to  relieve  us,  Henry." 

4'  Heaven  forgive  him  for — for " 

"I  forgive  him,  Henry." 

"  I  cannot — yet.  I  will  watch  over  him,  and,  if  possible, 

save  him  from  the  effects  of  his .  I  would  do  anything  to 

serve  him.  but  I  cannot  forgive  him — not  yet." 


137 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


The  hoax  goes  on. — Confidence,  and  the  lack  of  it — their  con 
sequences  in  domestic  life. 

"  Heavy  lightness,  serious  vanity." 

"  Griefs  of  mine  own  lie  heavy  in  my  breast." 

"I,  from  the  orient  to  the  drooping  west. 
Still  unfold 
The  acts  commenced  on  this  ball  of  earth." 

"  I  would  the  surfeit  of  my  too  abundant  riches 
Cure  by  enlarged  bounty." 

ct  Women  will  love  her  that  she  is  a  woman 
More  worth  than  any  man :  men,  that  she  is 
The  rarest  of  all  women." — Shakspeare. 

"There  are  men  who  let  their  lives  pass  away  without  a  single  effort  to- 
do  good,  either  to  friend  or  neighbour;  but  wo  to  the  man  who  is  incapa 
ble  of  feeling  that  the  greatest  possible  good  he  can  do  for  himself  or  for 
others,  is  to  do  his  duty,  and  leave  the  consequences  to  God." — Coleridge. 

WHERE  was  Trustworthy  Davenport  at  the  time  his  em 
ployer  so  needed  his  help  ?  He  had  remained  at  the  Tontine 
Coffee-house,  (Cooke's  usual  boarding-place),  during  a  visit  to 
the  house  of  an  admirer,  waiting  only  occasionally  upon  the  tra 
gedian  to  receive  orders.  The  morning  after  the  storm,  Trusty 
called,  and  was  informed  that  the  old  man  had  left  the  house 
after  it  was  thought  he  had  retired  to  bed,  and  that  there  was  no 
trace  of  him.  Returning  to  the  Tontine  to  consult  Bryden,  he 
arrived  just  in  time  to  relieve  Spiffard  from  his  troublesome 
charge,  and  convey  the  yet  bewildered  old  man  to  his  chamber 
and  bed. 

Spiffard  returned  home,  content  as  man  should  be,  with 
having  done  his  duty.  The  active  scenes  he  had  been 
engaged  in  made  him  forget  for  the  present  the  domestic  evil 
he  felt  and  dreaded.  He  was  ready  to  enjoy  his  breakfast. 
But  even  this  enjoyment  was  denied  him.  He  found  the  fol- 


138    The  hoax  goes  on. — Confidence,  and  the  lack  of  it. 

lowing  letter  awaiting.  The  Philadelphia  post-mark  and  hand 
writing  took  away  all  appetite  before  he  broke  the  seal,  on 
which  an  anchor  was  impressed :  so  careful  and  minute  had 
the  idler  Allen  been  in  his  industrious  preparation  for  mischief. 
Not  that  mischief  was  meant  in  the  serious  import  of  the  word. 
But  who  knows  when  he  deviates  from  the  track  of  truth  where 
the  by-path  may  lead  him  ? 

I  do  not  like  to  receive  a  letter  when  I  am  preparing  to  sit 
down  to  breakfast  or  dinner.  Good  news  is  least  wanted  when 
a  good  meal  is  before  me,  and  bad  news  spoils  the  most  sa 
voury  dish.  Spiffard  read  what  he  anticipated  from  the  out 
ward  signs. 

.  PHILADELPHIA,  Jan.  30,  1812. 

SIR  : — I  have  to  apologise  for  not  meeting  you  at  the  Al 
bany  Coffee-house  at  the  time  appointed.  I  was  called  to  this 
city  on  an  affair  that  did  not  admit  of  delay.  I  will  be  in  New- 
York  on  any  appointed  day,  previous  to  my  departure  for  Eu 
rope,  if  it  shall  be  necessary.  My  friend  Thomas  Beaglehole, 
Esq.  is  intrusted  with  the  adjustment  of  our  affair,  and  has  re 
ceived  my  instructions.  He  will  wait  upon  your  friend  and 
receive  your  determination.  If  he  is  satisfied,  I  am  :  other 
wise,  on  receiving  a  line  from  him,  I  shall  wait  upon  you  with 
all  speed. 

Your  obedient  servant, 

JOHN  SMITH. 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  the  feelings  of  a  man  who,  for  the 
first  time,  is  engaged  in  a  duel.  One  who  places  himself  in  a 
situation  intended  to  tempt  his  fellow-man  to  aim  at  his  life, 
and  intends  to  aim  at  the  life  of  his  fellow-man ;  one  who  has 
decided,  or  pledged  himself,  at  the  will  of  a  third  person,  (call 
ed  a  friend  or  second),  to  place  himself  in  a  situation  which 
may  make  of  him  a  corpse  or  a  murderer. 

Such  a  man,  after  having  given  or  accepted  a  challenge, 
and  placed  himself  at  the  disposal  of  a  second,  is  in  a  state  of 
torture,  troubled  fluctuations,  misgivings,  or  passionate  excite 
ment.  His  reason  does  not  approve — cannot  approve.  He 
knows  that  he  is  acting  contrary  to  the  dictates  of  conscience 
and  the  will  of  his  Maker,  from  fear  of  man's  opinions.  He 
makes  his  preparations  for  murder  with  affected  calmness, 
while  his  mind  is  a  chaos.  He  screws  himself  up  to  the  deed, 
or  the  suffering,  and  while  he  must  appear  cheerful,  curses  on 


TJieir  consequences  in  domestic  life.  139 

his  adversary  burst  from  his  tortured  soul,  and  he  eagerly 
grasps  at  the  hope  that  his  second  may  yet  prevent  blood. 

The  situation  of  Spiffard  was  not  similar  to  this.  He 
thought  himself  the  injured  party,  but  did  not  wish  revenge  for 
the  injury.  He  was  convinced  that  in  repressing  insult,  he  had 
clone  his  duty  as  a  man  and  a  husband.  He  had  agreed  to 
meet  Captain  Smith  at  the  suggestion  of  his  companions, 
whose  good  opinion  he  did  not  wish  to  lose,  and  of  whose  good 
faith  he  had  no  doubt ;  but  he  went  to  the  meeting  neither  to 
apologise  nor  fight,  but  to  show  his  supposed  adversary  that 
there  was  no  call  for  either.  Now,  however  his  situation  was 
changed,  and  he  was  called  upon  to  place  himself  at  the  dis 
posal  of  Mr.  Allen,  of  whom  he  knew  little,  and  of  a  Mr. 
Beaglehole,  of  whom  he  knew  nothing.  He  hesitated  as  to 
the  course  he  should  ultimately  pursue.  Uncertainty,  waver 
ing,  and  irresolution,  had  taken  possession  of  his  mind.  He 
was  sick  at  heart.  His  moments  of  self-approbation  were  few 
and  far  between.  As  the  progress  of  this  hoax  went  on,  Spif 
fard  became  discontented,  peevish,  and  a  feeling  approaching 
to  loathing  of  himself  and  all  around  him  weighed  upon  his 
spirit  and  withered  his  strength.  His  natural  paleness  was  in 
creased  to  a  corpse-like  livid  hue.  His  eyes  lost  their  fire, 
his  lips  their  colour,  and  his  muscles  their  elasticity. 

How  little  did  the  gay  young  men  who  produced  this  misery 
appreciate  the  pain  their  sport  inflicted  !  Did  they  wish  to  in 
flict  pain  ?  Certainly  not.  The  whole  plot  was  .the  result  of 
overflowing  animal  spirits,  kept  in  perpetual  ferment  by  the  in 
cessant  recurrence  of  the  feast  and  the  stimulants  accompany 
ing  it.  The  hot  blood  of  youth  pouring  fire — adding  fuel  to 
the  already  overheated  furnace.  There  is  a  mist  which  appetite 
raises  to  cloud  reason,  and  to  this  the  fumes  of  the  "sparkling 
glass" — the  all-destroying  alcohol — were  (in  those  days)  habit 
ually  added,  so  that  the  minds  of  some  were  always  enveloped 
in  a  many-coloured  cloud,  sometimes  bright  as  if  illumined  by  a 
thousand  suns ;  sometimes  dark  as  night;  but  ever  false — 
ever  leading  to  misapprehensions  and  endless  error. 

The  injury  unintentionally  inflicted  on  Spiffard,  was  shared 
by  his  wife.  Her  own  errors  rendered  her  peculiarly  obnox 
ious  to  suspicion.  The  husband  was  silent,  or  peevish.  The 
question,  "  What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Spiffard  1"  was  answered 
laconically  by  "  Nothing."  But  this  word  was  accompanied 
by  looks  that  spoke  volumes  to  the  unfortunate  woman,  yet 
left  her  in  suspense.  Sometimes  the  question  was  put,  "  What 
is  the  matter,  Mr.  Spiffard?"  and  the  answer  was  even  more 


140    The  hoax  goes  on. — Confidence,  and  the  lack  of  it. 

unsatisfactory,  though  the  word  was  still  "  Nothing.5*     But  I 
am  anticipating. 

Spiffard  could  neither  eat  his  breakfast  nor  remain  at  home, 
in  the  state  of  mind  which  the  renewal  of  the  affair  of  Captain 
John  Smith  produced.  After  the  ceremony  of  the  morning 
meal  was  over,  he  went  in  search  of  Allen. 

He  met  Henry  Johnson,  (no  longer  the  watchman),  and 
passed  him  with  a  friendly  salutation,  and  "  The  ladies  will  be 
glad  to  see  you." 

Henry,  (after  certain  arrangements  with  his  mother,  and 
the  necessary  attentions  to  his  appearance),  hastened  to  impart 
to  Emma  Portland  the  tidings  which  imported  change  so  great 
to  her.  Emma  had  left  him  poor ;  he  was  now  blessed  by 
competence.  She  had  made  a  discovery,  which,  although  re 
dounding  to  his  honour,  pained  her,  as  it  seemed  like  a  want 
of  confidence  in  her  ;  something  approaching  to  falsehood  in 
him. 

The  two  couples  which  the  thread  of  our  story  brings  us  to 
consider  under  the  same  point  of  view,  were  strangely  con 
trasted.  They  were  alike  as  being  young ;  for  still  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Spiffard  were  in  the  prime  of  life.  They  were  alike  in 
being  blest  by  nature  with  physical  and  mental  powers.  In 
what  then  consisted  the  contrast  ?  The  one  pair  was  misera 
ble,  the  other  happy.  What  the  cause  ?  Early  education  and 
early  associates.  Johnson  and  Spiffard  were  both  moral  men ; 
but  the  first,  had  been  strictly  trained ;  and  the  path  of  life 
pointed  out  by  a  pure  and  religious  parent.  The  second  was 
left  to  the  guidance  of  his  blind  fancy,  and  misled  by  one  who 
had  been  selected  for  his  guide.  Henry  had  chosen  a  partner 
in  the  house  of  God,  from  among  those  who  were  teaching  the 
orphan,  and  the  abandoned  of  earth,  to  seek  heaven.  Spiffard 
had  selected  from  among  those  who  delight  the  mingled  throng 
who  seek  pleasure  more  than  improvement. 

The  interview  which  took  place  on  the  present  occasion,  was 
of  great  interest  to  Henry  Johnson  and  Emma  Portland  :  but 
as  I  am  aware  that  such  scenes  are  not  of  the  most  fascinating 
kind  to  the  general  reader,  I  shall  leave  the  imagination  of  my 
admirers  to  supply  the  terms  in  which  the  young  man  made 
many  explanations,  and  informed  the  lovely  girl  of  those  disco 
veries  which  led  to  the  unravelment  of  the  intricacies  which 
were  gathering  around  Mr.  Littlejohn  and  himself.  But  we 
must  take  a  peep  at  the  scene  of  happiness,  notwithstanding. 

He  found  Emma  alone.  That  was  just  as  it  should  be.  For 
a  short  time  he  was  embarrassed,  and  she  was  thoughtful,  He 


Their  consequences  in  domestic  life.  141 

considered  her  as  an  incarnation  of  truth.  She  was  so  ;  and 
like  Milton's  Truth,  "  an  immortal  feature  of  loveliness  and 
perfection."  And  Henry,  in  the  spirit  of  truth,  sought  to  ex 
plain  any  appearance  that  might  offend  her  purity. 

"  I  am  delighted  to  find  that  the  exposure  to  the  storm  of 
last  night,  has  not  made  you  sick,  Emma.  And  yet  you  do 
not  appear  as  cheerful  as  usual." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  my  health  has  suffered.  The  cold  was 
great,  but  I  was  well  guarded,  and  the  snow  was  dry." 

"  But  your  eyes  do  not  sparkle  as  they  were  wont." 

•'  Perhaps  they  want  sleep  ;  but  no,  I  slept  very  soundly, 
and  later  than  I  commonly  do.  Henry,  it  was  a  night  of 
wonders." 

"  Wonders,  indeed !" 

"  And  you  do  not  know  that  I  came  from  a  death-bed  before 
I  saw  you  ;  and  a  sudden  and  unexpected  death,  although  one 
serene  and  prepared  for.  When  I  awoke  this  morning,  I  could 
not  but  think  I  had  been  dreaming.  The  situation  in  which  I 
found  Mr.  Cooke — and,  Henry,  the  situation  in  which  I  found 
you.  The  dying  woman — the  storm — the  old  man  lying  help 
less,  and  perisfiliftg  with  cold — the  watch-house — and  the 
watchman,  Henry !  I  would  as  little  expect  to  find  Henry 
Johnson  in  such  a  dress,  and  with  such  companions,  and  in 
such  a  place,  as  to  find  Mr.  Cooke  perishing  in  the  street  in  a 
snow-storm." 

"  I  can  explain  to  your  satisfaction,  Emma." 

"  Had  I  not  a  right  to  expect  confidence  from  one,  to  one 
who  has  confided  in  him  most  implicitly?" 

"You  had." 

"  I  will  not  hide  a  thought  from  you,  Henry.  Meeting  you, 
as  I  did,  when  I  little  expected  to  meet  any  one  whom  I 
had  even  seen,  and  when  I  trusted  for  the  success  of  my  mis 
sion  upon  the  common  dictates  of  duty  alone,  was  little  short 
of  a  miracle.  At  the  time,  it  was  a  source  of  unmingled  joy  ; 
but  since,  I  have  thought  upon  it  with  sorrow.  With  all  my 
confidence  in  your  purity  and  honour,  I  have  not  yet  been  re 
conciled  to  finding  you  so  disguised,  and  so  associated." 

"  For  my  mother,  Emma  !  for  my  angelic  mother  !  For 
her  who  has  toiled  and  suffered,  that  I  might  be  instructed,  and 
made  useful  in  society.  You  know  what  my  expectations  were; 
and  that  I  toiled  at  the  desk  all  day,  to  be  prepared,  at  an  ap 
proaching  period,  for  a  lucrative  employment.  In  the  meantime, 
my  mother  was  rendered  incapable  of  exertion.  I  did  not  tell 
you  how  very  poor  we  were.  I  thought,  for  the  short  time  of 


142     The  hoax  goes  on. — Confidence,  and  the  lack  of  it. 

my  probation,  I  would  watch  during  the  night,  as  well  as  work 
through  the  day,  and  when  my  promised  salary  commenced, 
then  resign  the  pittance,  which  has  been,  for  some  time,  my 
mother's  support.  Thus  my  days  were  occupied  in  labour  for 
future  comfort,  and  my  nights  for  the  present  means  of  subsis- 
tince." 

Emma  gave  him  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

4<  But,  Henry,  did  you  think  I  could  not  appreciate  such 
motives  ?  Why  not  confide  your  necessities  and  your  plans 
to  me?" 

"  My  reasons  may  not  appear  sufficient  to  you,  although 
they  were  so  to  me.  I  thought  that  you  might  suppose  the 
hardships  and  exposures  I  should  encounter,  greater  than  they 
really  are  ;  and  therefore  that  the  knowledge  of  this  mode  of  re 
lieving  my  mother's  wants,  by  depriving  myself  of  rest,  would 
cause  unnecessary  anxiety  to  you.  You  must  forgive  me.  It  w;as 
with  difficulty  that  I  persuaded  my  mother  to  be  reconciled  to 
the  temporary  resource,  (for  it  was  only  to  last  a  few  weeks  ;) 
and  I  was,  perhaps,  vain  enough  to  think  it  might  be  as  diffi 
cult  to  obtain  your  approbation,  and  might  cause  unnecessary 
pain." 

There  was  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  a  smile  through  tears, 
that  spoke  perfect  forgiveness.  Never  do  the  rays  of  the  sun 
appear  more  beautiful,  than  when  they  are  seen  through  the 
mild,  refreshing  showers  of  summer,  giving  promise  of  a  goodly 
time  to  come.  Such  a  smile  was  an  assurance  of  future  hap 
piness  to  Henry  Johnson. 

"And  now,  Henry,  I  do  believe  that  the  watchman  who 
twice  followed  me,  was  the  same  that  assisted  me  last  night." 

"  You  may  believe  it." 

"  Even  yet  I  cannot  be  reconciled  to  a  disguise." 

"  The  dress  was  not  put  on  as  a  disguise.  I  put  on  the 
habit  with  the  employment.  I  obtained  the  employment  by 
the  recommendation  of  a  neighbour,  who  had  himself  served  as 
such,  but  was  disqualified  by  infirmity.  I  told  no  untruths. 
My  name  and  my  motives  were  known  to  my  companions." 

"  But  such  companions  !" 

"Do  not  misconceive  of  them.  Do  not,  because  European 
books  describe  the  watchman  as  a  rogue  or  a  fool,  therefore 
suppose  the  useful  guardians  of  our  cities  to  be  such.  They 
are  honest,  industrious  mechanics,  and  as  well  informed,  on  all 
subjects,  as  men  who  gain  their  bread  by  the  labour  of  their 
hands  can  be.  They  have  appreciated  my  superior  education, 
as,  by  degrees,  they  discovered  that  I  possessed  that  advan- 


T/ieir  consequences  in  domestic  life.  143 

tage.  I  hare  been  of  service  to  such  of  them  as  imagined 
ardent  spirits  of  use  to  them  in  times  of  exposure,  by  convinc 
ing  them  of  the  contrary.  Most  of  them  have  been  apprised  of 
my  motives  for  putting  on  the  garb,  and  sharing  the  hardships 
of  the  band  ;  and  they  have  given  them  their  due  weight.  But 
Emma,  neither  they,  nor  you,  nor  I,  have  known  who  I  am." 

"  We  do  not  know  ourselves  to  be  sure.  Who  does  ?  I  do 
not  know  myself;  but  I  thought  that,  perhaps,  I  knew  you 
better  than  you  knew  yourself.  I  had  my  doubts,  last  night." 

"I  do  not  mean  that  self-knowledge." 

"  What  then?" 

"  The  discoveries  of  this  morning  are  even  more  extraordi 
nary  than  those  of  last  night." 

"  Of  this  morning." 

"  After  you  left  my  mother,  and  even  after  the  storm  had 
past,  and  the  sun  had  risen." 

"  They  must  be  strange  discoveries,  indeed,  if  more  strange 
than  I  made.  For  I  last  night  discovered,  in  a  poor,  perishing 
outcast,  dying  on  a  snow-heap,  the  idolized  George  Frederick 
Cooke  ;  and  in  the  sober,  industrious,  moral  Henry  Johnson, 
a  tenant  of  the  watch-house." 

"And  I  saw  Emma  Portland  in  charge  of  a  watchman,  and 
ushered,  at  midnight,  to  the  cognizance  of  the  captain  of  the 
watch.  But  the  discovery  that  followed,  and  which  I  am  to 
impart  to  you,  affects  us  both  most  seriously." 

The  playfulness  of  Emma  gave  place  to  anxiety  ;  her  smiles 
to  an  expression  of  fear. 

"  While  we  are  conscious  of  our  good  intentions,  Henry — " 

"  I  have  no  disclosure  to  make  that  can  injure  me  in  your 
opinion.  But  I  at  length  know  my  father." 

"  And  living  ?" 

"  Living.     His  life  saved  by  you.". 

"  Mr.  Cooke  >" 

"  Is  my  father,  Emma.     My  unworthy  father." 

"  Owing  his  life  to  his  son  !     Does  he  know  you  ?" 

"  No.     Nor  shall  he  ever." 

*'  And  your  mother?" 

"  She  shall  remain  unknown  to  her  unworthy  husband.  He 
supposes  her  dead.  Let  him  suppose  so." 

"  That  might  disturb  his  last  hours,  Henry.  "We  must  for 
give.  Your  mother —  ?" 

"  I  shall  obey  my  mother.  You  must  see  her,  and  speak  on 
the  subject ;  and  on  another,  if  possible,  more  near  to  us,  but 
of  a  very  different  character." 


144     The  hoax  goes  on. — Confidence,  and  the  lack  of  it. 

4<  I  will  see  her  to-day." 

"  But,  Emma,  does  not  the  knowledge  that  I  am  the  son  of 
such  a  father,  change  your  feelings  towards  me,  whom  you 
have  heretofore  considered  as  the  offspring  of  misfortune,  al 
lied  to  intelligence,  virtue,  honour,  and  religion  ;  and  now  find 
that  I  am  the  son  of  one  noted  for  vices  and  stained  by  cruelty 
to  your  friend  and  my  mother !" 

•'  If  you  had  been  educated  by  and  lived  with  your  father, 
such  as  you  now  describe  him,  I  might  fear  to  trust  my  fate  to 
your  guardianship  ;  but  I  know  that  the  virtues  of  your  mother 
have  been  your  inheritance;  I  trust  myself  to  the  son  of  Mrs. 
Johnson." 

"  Of  her,  driven  by  him  from  her  native  land,  home,  friends  ; 
turned  adrift,  like  Prospero,  with  a  helpless  infant,  upon  an 
unknown  ocean !" 

"  But,  Henry,  you  were  like  the  poet's  Miranda,  the  pro 
tecting  angel  of  your  parent.  You  are  still  her  support.  You 
have  saved  your  mother  from  want ;  and  now  you  have  saved 
your  father's  life.  Indeed,  I  have  not  before  known  you." 

44  That  he  is  my  father,  must  be  a  secret  from  all,  but  us 
three,  Emma.  He  must  not  know  it — the  world  must  not 
know  it.  But  I  have  more  to  communicate." 

Henry  recounted  the  circumstances  attending  his  interview 
with  Mr.  Littlejohn ;  and  the  young  folks  could  not  but  re 
joice  in  a  futurity  which  was  opening  to  them  as  bright  as  it 
was  unexpected — lucrative  employment  bestowing  indepen 
dence  on  the  son,  consequent  comfort,  and  perhaps  health  on 
the  mother,  and  a  matrimonial  union  promising  every  blessing 
that  virtue  can  bestow  on  the  deserving,  or  that  sanguine  youth 
can  anticipate. 


H5 


CHAP.  XVII. 


Hoax  continued.     A  sick-bed  repentance. 

*  *  *  "  The  spirit's  ladder, 
That  from  me  gross  and  visible  world  of  dust, 
Even  to  the  starry  world,  with  thousand  rounds 
Builds  itself  up  ;  on  which  the  unseen  powers 
Move  up  and  down  on  heavenly  ministries." — Coleridge. 

"  The  love  of  wine,  like  the  love  of  money,  associates  itself,  and  the  means 
of  its  indulgence,  with  all  things  else  in  heaven  and  on  earth." — American 
Monthly  Magazine. 

•'  O'er  the  dread  feast  malignant  chemia  scowls, 
And  mingles  poison  in  the  nectared  bowls. 
Fell  gout  peeps,  grinning,  through  the  fleecy  screen, 
And  bloated  dropsy  pants  behind,  unseen : 
Wrapt  in  his  robe,  white  lepra  hides  his  stains, 
And  silent/renzy,  writhing,  bites  his  chains." — Darwin. 

"  Their  virtues  else  *  *  * 
Shall  in  the  general  censure  take  corruption 
From  that  particular  fault.   The  dram  of  base 
Doth  all  the  noble  substance  oft  do  out, 
To  his  own  scandal." — Shaksj>eare. 

ALTHOUGH  Henry  and  Emma  had  escaped  unscathed  from 
the  adventures  of  a  winter's  night  and  a  snow-storm,  not  so 
the  unfortunate,  misdoing,  George  Frederick  Cooke.  He  had 
taken  that  night  a  long  step  towards  the  grave.  His  friendly 
physicians,  and  his  invaluable  valet,  or  help,  trustworthy  Daven 
port,  watched  over  him ;  and  though  his  case  had  become  des 
perate,  and  the  water  had  found  its  way  without  the  aid  of  the 
warm-bath,  still  the  termination  of  his  eventful  and  mispent 
life  was  delayed,  as  far  as  human  means  could  turn  off  the  dart 
of  death,  by  medical  skill,  and  by  the  unwearied  attention  of 
the  faithful  Yankee  traveller,  who,  like  his  countryman,  Spif- 


146  Hoax  continued.     A  sick-bed  repentance. 

fard,  seemed  to  be  attached  to  the  old  man  from  motives  inex 
plicable  to  mere  worldlings. 

SpifTard,  as  we  have  seen,  had  had  his  breakfast  spoiled  by 
receiving  Captain  John  Smith's  letter ;  and,  as  was  expected 
by  the  writer,  the  letter  was  brought  back  to  him  by  the  unso 
phisticated  Yankee.  Allen  received  the  document  and  read 
it  with  as  much  gravity  as  though  he  had  not  written  it ;  then 
folded  it,  and  said, — 

44  We  shall  of  course  hear  from  Mr.  Beaglehole." 

44  I  suppose  so." 

**  We  shall  then  know  how  to  proceed." 

"  Do  you  know  this  Mr.  Rabbithole '?" 

"  Beaglehole." 

"  Ay — do  you  know  him  ?" 

44  Yes,  we  all  know  him.  He  is  a  man  of  honour,"  said 
Allen  ;  "  a  fellow  of  spirit.  Hops  like  a  flea.  Can  beat  any 
man  in  the  country  running  on  all  fours." 

"  Like  a  pig  or  an  ass." 

44  Hands  and  feet  against  feet — arms  and  legs  against  legs." 

"  As  a  proof  of  his  honour?" 

4<  0,  he  has  proved  that  by  shooting  his  man,"  said  Allen. 
"  Hits  a  button  ten  times  in  succession — he  is  up  to  a  button 
any  day.  If  he  has  received  Captain  Smith's  instructions, 
which  he  has  no  doubt,  as  the  captain  is  a  man  of  honour  and 
says  so — " 

"  *  All  honourable  men,'  "  thought  Spiffard. 

41  He  will  wait  upon  you,  and,  of  course,  you  will  refer  him 
to  me." 

44  Of  course?" 

44  Certainly  if  I  am  to  settle  the  business." 

44 1  shall  settle  the  business." 

44  You  will  not  apologize  1" 

'4  Certainly  not," 

44  Well — nothing  more  can  be  done  till  we  hear  from  Mr* 
Beagluhole." 

Mr.  Beaglehole  was  an  agent  for  a  Birmingham  button- 
maker.  These  agents  are  a  class  that  in  England  are  called 
riders ;  but,  when  in  this  country,  pass  for  gentlemen,  and 
were,  44  thirty  years  ago,"  received  as  such  by  the  simple 
folks  of  the  day  I  am  speaking  of,  and  admired  accordingly. 
They  felt  a  great  contempt  for  the  natives,  had  money  at 
command,  (no  matter  whether  their  own  or  not)  dressed  well, 
fed  well,  drank  hard,  and  gave  a  false  impression  upon  Ame 
ricans  of  the  character  of  Englishmen.  We  now  know  better. 


Hoax  continued.     Jl  sick-bed  repentance.  147 

Spiffard  left  his  friend  Allen,  who  chuckled  at  the  thought 
that  the  sport  went  "  bravely  on,"  and  little  thought  of  the 
misery  he  was  preparing  for  others.  Indeed  it  was  not  possi 
ble  for  him  and  his  young  companions  to  anticipate  the  conse 
quences  ;  although,  when  men  of  dissimilar  habits  become  as 
sociates,  evil  may  be  predicted  ;  and,  when  truth  is  violated 
in  jest,  no  good  can  arise  from  it.  Truth,  as  well  as  tem 
perance,  '*  is  a  delicate  wench."  They  are  both  strong,  and 
the  cause  of  strength  in  others ;  yet  are  they  both  very  ob 
noxious  to  injuries,  and  shrink  from  contact  with  their  oppo- 
sites,  as  if  possessed  of  instinctive  sensitiveness.  The  water- 
drinker  was  not  a  fit  companion  for  the  disciples  of  Anacreon. 

The  business  with  Allen  so  far  arranged,  our  hero  turned 
his  thoughts^to  the  deplorable  old  man,  who  was  a  slave  to  the 
vices  which  truth  and  temperance  abhor. 

To  explain  the  immediate  cause  of  Cooke's  terrible  situation 
on  the  night  of  the  storm,  it  is  necessary  to  say,  that  he  had  on 
the  previous  day  dined  with  one  of  his  admirers  in  a  large 
company,  and  indulged  himself  without  restraint.  He  remained 
at  table  until  all  the  revellers  were  gone,  and  his  host,  without 
difficulty,  prevailed  upon  him  to  retire  to  a  bed-chamber. 
He  retired,  but  would  not  go  to  bed,  demanding  brandy,  and 
abused  his  friend  for  not  giving  it.  In  attempting  to  leave  the 
room,  his  host,  by  main  force,  prevented  ;  and,  placing  him  on 
the  side  of  the  bed,  thought  he  had  prevailed  upon  him  to  re 
main  quiet ;  but,  after  he  had  left  him,  the  wretched  madman, 
when  all  the  house  was  quiet,  found  his  way  out,  and,  without 
hat  or  over-coat,  rushed  into  the  street,  where  he  wandered 
until  oppressed  by  liquor,  fatigue,  and  cold,  he  had  sunk  to 
sleep — the  sleep  of  death. 

SpifFard  found  him  a  sick  and  wretched  penitent.  He  found 
that,  although  courted  and  feasted,  when  he  could  be  exhibited 
as  a  curiosity,  as  a  lion  at  the  soiree  or  the  dinner-table,  he 
was,  in  his  sick  chamber,  a  poor  abandoned  solitary  individual, 
left  to  reflect  with  remorse  upon  those  vices  which  flatterers 
and  admirers  had  encouraged  for  their  own  amusement ;  aban 
doned  by  all  except  his  kind  physicians  and  his  trusty  trust 
worthy  Davenport.  Under  these  circumstances,  Spifiard's 
feelings  prompted  unwearied  attention  to  the  comfort  of  the 
unfortunate  old  man. 

He  had  before,  as  the  reader  will  remember,  devoted  himself 
to  the  same  efforts.  He  had  recounted  the  incidents  of  his 
former  life  for  the  sick  man's  amusement ;  but  he  had  avoided 


148  Hoax  continued.     Ji  sick-bed  repentance. 

that  circumstance  which,  perhaps,  unknown  to  himself,  impell 
ed  him  to  take  such  deep  interest  in  the  fate  of  one,  whose 
conduct  constantly  reminded  him  of  the  miseries  which  similar 
self-inflicted  madness  had  brought  upon  all  his  own  family. 
Every  good  feeling  of  the  young  man  kept  him  mute  on  the 
subject  of  his  mother's  failings.  It  was  a  source  of  mortifi 
cation  and  grief  which  he  cherished  in  secret.  He  looked 
upon  his  own  fate  as  connected  with  it.  He  contemplated, 
in  retrospect,  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  and  their  consequences, 
with  fearful  misgivings,  as  it  respected  the  future. 

Cooke  had  often  reflected  upon  the  earnest  devotedness 
with  which  a  youth  and  a  water-drinker  attached  himself  to  an 
old  man  of  habits  so  opposite  to  his  own.  He  took  this  occa 
sion  to  question  him  on  the  subject,  and  express  his  surprise. 
With  that  suavity  of  manner  which  distinguished  him  when 
he  was  not  brutalized,  he  addressed  Spiffard  thus  ;  at  the  same 
time  raising  himself  in  bed  and  leaning  on  his  elbow. 

"  More  than  once,  before  this,  you  have  appeared  to  take  a 
particular  interest  in  me,  at  times,  when  by  my  unfortunate  dis 
ease — or,  as  some  would  say,  my  wretched  folly  and  propen 
sity  to  debauchery — I  have  been  prostrated  thus  on  the  bed  of 
sickness  and  unavailing  regret.  I  never  met  with  any  one 
before — yes,  one  !"  He  paused,  turned  his  head  aside,  and 
wiped  his  eyes,  by  hastily,  and  as  if  to  avoid  being  noticed, 
passing  the  shirt-sleeve  of  his  right  arm  before  them.  He  con 
tinued,  "  I  never  met  with  a  man  who  appeared  to  take  such 
interest  in  me.  Why  is  it?" 

Spiffard,  if  he  had  been  conscious  of  the  true  causes,  (which 
I  doubt),  was  too  delicate  to  avow  them.  But,  although  the 
images  of  his  mother  and  his  wife  flitted  before  hia  mind's 
eye,  he  thought  he  answered  sincerely  when  he  said, 

"  Surely,  sir,  admiration  of  superior  talents,  and  the  hope  of 
rescuing  them  (you  must  pardon  me)  from  a  vice  which  you 
have  suffered  by  degrees  to  assume  a  sway — a  most  despotic 
sway — over  them,  are  sufficient  motives  to  account  for  my 
conduct  towards  you." 

"  I  do  not  know  that.  Your  attention  to  me — your  patience 
when  I  am  harsh  in  speech — your  firmness — your  candour — 
all  are  very  singular.  No  one  else  has  treated  me  so.  Yes, 
one  ;  but  there  firmness  was  wanting.  I  feel  my  obligation  to 
you." 

He  grasped  Spiffard's  hand  hurriedly — pressed  it — and  then 
threw  himself  back  upon  his  pillow.  There  was  a  minute's 
silence,  Suddenly  raising  himself  again  to  his  former  attitude, 


Hoax  continued.     Jl  sick-bed  repentance. 

he  said,  in  a  high  tone,  "  Vice  !  Why  vice,  sirr  ?  Sirr,  it  is  a 
disease — an  incurable  disease  !  a  disease  implanted  by  nature t 
Sirr,  a  man  is  no  more  blameable  because  he  is  the  victim  of 
it,  than  if  he  suffered  rheumatism,  calculus,  fever  of  the  blood 
or  brain,  or  any  other  of  the  4  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to.'  " 

"  4  That  flesh  is  heir  toT  Flesh  is  not  heir  to  the  diseases 
which  proceed  from  intemperance.  The  indulgence  of  the 
appetite  that  grows  by  what  it  feeds  on.  Natural  appetite  be 
comes  vicious  and  criminal,  as  it  is  hurtful,  when  it  throws  off 
the  restraint  of  reason ;  and  it  becomes  ten  times  more  crimi 
nal  in  me  to  indulge  appetite  after  once  knowing  that  it  is  inju 
rious  to  my  own  mind  and  body,  as  well  as  to  those  most  inti 
mately  connected  with  me." 

Cooke  groaned.  Spiffard  continued.  **  The  diseases  that 
you  have  enumerated,  and  others  to  which  we  are  subjected  by 
our  natural  constitution,  or  the  constitution  of  society,  have  no 
disgrace  attached  to  them.  Not  so  intemperance  and  its  evils. 
They  bring  shame  as  well  as  suffering." 

After  a  pause  SphTard  continued,  "  Rheumatism  may  be 
brought  upon  us  by  causes  over  which  we  have  no  control  ; 
accidental  exposures  to  heat,  damps,  cold.  Epidemics  with 
pestilential  influence  sweep  off  their  thousands.  Diseases  visit 
us  beyond  the  reach  of  medicine  ;  we  suffer  ;  we  die.  These 
are  the  4  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to.'  In  the  course  of  our  allotted 
duties,  while  performing  our  parts  worthily  in  life's  drama,  we 
are  subject  to  accidents  and  various  maladies,  by  which  we 
are  deprived  of  health,  and  brought  to  the  tomb.  But  although 
we  suffer,  we  do  not  feel  the  stings  of  conscience — we 
have  not  acted  in  opposition  to  our  better  knowledge.  We 
may  indeed  say,  resignedly,  these  are  '  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to." 
But  the  diseases  which  we  bring  upon  ourselves  by  sensual  in 
dulgence,  it  is  blasphemy  to  lay  the  flattering  unction  to  our 
souls,  that  they  are  evils  inflicted  by  heaven,  and  not  entailed 
by  our  own  vices." 

Cooke  was  not  willing  to  abandon  the  sophistry  with  which. 
he  had  endeavoured  to  lull  his  conscience. 

4<  Surely,"  said  he,  "  we  are  to  be  pitied  when  we  suffer  from 
the  dictates  of  passions  and  appetites  which  are  implanted  in 
us  by  nature  without  our  will  ?" 

'*  I  would  pity  and  endeavour  to  relieve,"  said  his  young 
mentor,  "  but  I  would  not  encourage  the  belief  that  he  is  not 
himself  the  cause  of  his  sufferings.  Reason  is  given  us  to 
control  passion  and  appetite.  The  will  of  God  is  made  known 
to  us,  to  preserve  us  from  following  the  dictates  of  those  pas- 

VOL.  II.  7 


150  Hoax  continued.     A  sick-bed  repentance. 

sions  and  appetites,  which,  when  not  improperly  indulged,  are 
necessary  to  our  welfare.  But  we  find  a  momentary  gratifica 
tion  in  the  indulgence  of  appetite,  or  in  obeying  the  dictates  of 
our  passions,  and  our  wills,  and  forget  the  lessons  of  reason 
or  of  revelation.  We  bring  disease  and  misfortune  upon  our 
selves,  and  we  are  so  prone  to  self-flattery  as  well  as  self-in 
dulgence,  that  we  say,  *  I  could  not  avoid  it ;  I  obeyed  the 
dictates  of  nature.'  Thus  we  charge  our  own  faults  and  their 
consequences  on  our  Creator.  The  intemperate  man  says,  *I 
only  seek  the  gratification  which  nature  points  out  or  makes  ne 
cessary  ;'  he  fires  his  blood  with  wine  and  brandy,  and  then  flies 
to  the  haunts  of  impurity.  Still  he  says,  '  I  have  these  impulses 
from  nature.'  If  strife  and  murder,  or  disease  and  death,  fol 
low,  all  must  of  course  be  charged  on  nature.  There  is  no 
evil  which  man  brings  upon  himself  by  his  own  selfishness 
that  he  does  not  endeavour  to  impute  to  necessity,  fate,  nature, 
or  the  Creator  of  the  universe.  Even  the  fears  and  torments 
of  the  slave-dealer,  whether  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  or  at  the 
seat  of  our  government ;  or  of  the  slave-holder,  whether  in 
Havanna  or  Savannah,  Cuba  or  Carolina,  are  all  charged  to 
the  same  cause.  He  says,  in  excuse  for  all  the  misery  which 
slavery  inflicts  on  slave  and  master,  *  Nature  ordained  it  so.' 
He  will  tell  you,  even  in  the  solemn  assembly  of  a  nation's 
sages,  (a  nation  that  boasts  its  freedom,  and  has  declared  all 
men  equal  in  rights),  that  God  has  marked  a  certain  portion  of 
his  creatures  as  slaves  to  a  certain  other  portion.  '  Has  he 
not  made  them  black  ?  Has  he  not  given  them  wool  instead 
of  hair  ?  He  has  given  them  the  form  of  man,  merely  the  bet 
ter  to  accommodate  them  to  my  purposes.'  What  crime  can 
man  perpetrate,  that  he  does  not  in  self-delusion  charge  upon 
nature  ?  No,  sir  !  Man  has  the  choice  of  good  and  evil ;  and 
his  Creator  has  given  him  the  power  to  restrain  every  impulse 
that  leads  to  his  destruction." 

"  But  there  is  a  point,"  said  Cooke,  "which,  if  passed,  we 
can  never  return  to.  I  have  been  irresistibly  impelled  to  what 
I  knew  was  destruction  :  an  incurable  disease  has  been  upon 
me  for  years."  He  threw  himself  back,  and  hid  his  face. 
SpifFard  continued  as  if  under  an  uncontrollable  influence,  al 
though  advocating  the  doctrine  of  a  self-controlling  power;  but 
reason  approved  the  impulse. 

<4  It  is  a  lamentable  self-delusion  to  say  »  My  desires  are  ir 
resistible,  or  the  habits  of  intemperance,  of  any  description,  in 
curable.'  While  life,  with  reason,  remains,  the  sanity  of  the 
mind  may  be  restored,  and  comparative  bodily  health  regained* 


Hoax  continued.     A  sick-bed  repentance.  151 

The  only  irredeemable  step  is  that  which  has  led  to  death.  I 
conjure  you,  sir,  not  to  give  way  to  the  thought  that  your  suf 
ferings,  or  the  habits  which  have  produced  them,  are  beyond 
remedy.  I  beg  you  to  recollect  that  when  you  have  had  any 
particular  object  in  mew — when  you  have  wished  to  appear  well 
in  the  eyes  of  an  individual,  or  the  public — when  you  have  de 
sired  to  outdo  a  rival,  or  make  a  favourable  impression  on 
coming  to  a  strange  place — you  can — /  know  it — I  have  06- 
served  it — you  can,  and  have,  repeatedly,  refrained  from  touch 
ing  '  the  accursed  thing.'  And  if  for  a  comparatively  trifling 
object  you  can  do  it,  can  you  not  do  it  for  health,  strength,  life, 
good  name  ?  Think,  sir,  think  how  infinitely  more  important 
ihese  are,  than  the  paltry  consideration  of  appearing  to  advan 
tage  in  any  given  character  on  the  stage,  or  before  any  indi 
vidual  in  private  life  ;  or  to  attract  more  plaudits  from  a  mot 
ley  crowd  than  are  bestowed  on  a  rival !  What  are  these  in 
comparison  with  the  will  of  God,  and  the  blessings  which  fol 
low  the  doing  his  will  1" 

While  Spiffard  spoke,  his  countenance  kindled — his  eyes 
sparkled — benevolence  shone  in  every  feature,  action,  and 
word.  The  hearer  of  truth  cannot  be  offended,  even  if  it  con 
demns  him,  when  he  is  convinced  that  the  speaker  has  no  sel 
fish  motive  ;  but  that  the  counsel,  or  even  the  reproof,  springs 
from  pure  benevolence.  Spiffard  spoke  with  more  energy  than 
any  one  could  have  done  who  had  not  seen  and  suffered  so 
much  from  the  cause  of  Cooke's  misery.  The  arguments  he 
used  to  save  the  friend  before  him,  had  been  used,  in  different 
language,  to  save  one  nearer  to  him.  His  feelings,  though  not 
selfish^  were  so  far  connected  with  self. 

Cooke  made  nor  further  defence.  He  raised  himself  in  bed, 
clasped  Spiffard's  hand  with  both  his,  and  the  big  tears  coursed 
each  other  down  his  furrowed  cheeks  till  they  became  a  tor 
rent.  He  sunk  again — hid  his  face  on  his  pillow,  and  sobbed 
audibly.  His  young  friend  was  affected  most  powerfully.  The 
scene  was  touching  :  the  humiliation  of  age  before  truth  from 
the  lips  of  youth.  Spiffard  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  re 
sumed  in  a  soothing  tone  and  manner. 

"  It  may  appear  improper  for  a  young  man  like  me  to  coun 
sel  one  of  your  age  ;  but  my  motive  must  plead  my  excuse. 
The  sufferings  of  those  dearest  to  me,  and  the  most  poignant 
sufferings  of  my  life,  have  proceeded  from  the  errors  I  so  ar 
dently  combat  I  have  seen  a  mother  destroyed — a  father's 
peace  and  fortune  blasted — all  my  kindred  swept  away — lost 
—immolated  at  the  altar  of  this  demon.  Let  me  persuade  you 


152  Hoax  continued.     Jl  sick-bed  repentance. 

that  you  have  only  to  resolve  to  do  what  you  have  done  for 
temporary  considerations,  and  you  can  retrieve  all  yet — healthf 
fame,  arid  peace  of  mind." 

Cooke  had  been  motionless  ;  his  face  buried  in  the  bed 
clothes.     He  started  up. 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  he  exclaimed  ;  '*  I  cannot  recall  the  past. 
For  myself,  I  might  amend  health  and  life  ;  but  misery  inflict 
ed  on  others  is  past  remedy,  and  can  never  be  obliterated  from 
rny  memory.  It  has  been  to  deaden  the  sense  of  my  own  un 
worthy  conduct  towards  others — towards  one,  the  best,  the 
most  patient ;  to  drown  the  thought  of  the  past,  I  have  con 
tinued  the  same  practice  which  caused  the  guilt  I  lament.  I 
cannot  undo  what  is  done  :  I  cannot  recall  the  dead  !  Would 
you  believe  it  1  Even  this  resource  now  fails  me.  Even  in  my 
hours  of  madness  she  appears  to  me  !  As  I  live,  I  saw  her — 
heard  her — in  a  miserable  hovel — sick — stretched  on  her  death 
bed — poor — starving — dying !  I  have  had  such  visions  before 
in  my  sleep,  after  my  waking  thoughts  have  been  employed  on 
the  past ;  but  never  like  this.  I  heard  her  voice !  It  rings  in 
my  ears  still !  I  know  it  was  a  dream,  caused  by  an  imagina 
tion  distempered  from  the  previous  day's  excess  :  I  have  had 
such  visions  before,  but  never  so  wild  or  so  vivid.  Would 
you  believe  it  1  I  thought  I  saw  myself,  as  I  was  in  my  youth; 
and  then  I  thought  I  had  a  son,  and  I  saw  him  before  me  !  I 
shook  off  the  image  ;  it  was  a  watchman.  I  know  they  are 
dead.  But  these  images  haunt  me !  Where  was  I  last  night 
when  you  found  me?  Where  did  you  bring  me  from  this 
morning?  Or  was  it  last  night?  I  think  it  was.  No,  no.  I 
lose  time — time  !  I  have  lost  time,  indeed  !" 

Spiffard  recounted  the  transactions  of  the  night  as  far  as  he 
had  seen  them  ;  and  being  convinced,  himself,  that  his  friend's 
imagination  had  conjured  up  unreal  images,  and  transformed 
Mrs.  Johnson  and  her  son  into  personages  connected  with  his 
former  life,  he  easily  persuaded  him  that  it  was  so. 

Whether  this  conversation,  or  the  solicitude  of  Spifiard, 
would  have  been  of  avail  under  happier  circumstances,  must  be 
left  in  doubt.  The  irretrievable  step,  as  it  respected  health 
ind  life,  had  been  taken. 


153 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


Hoax  continued.     The  button  duellist. 

"For  let  the  gods  so  speed  me,  as  I  love 
The  name  of  honour  more  than  I  fear  death." — S'tdkspcare . 

11  Within  my  bosom  dwells  another  lord — " 
Reason — "  sole  judge  and  umpire  of  itself." — Home. 

"Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes, 
And  thrice  he  slew  the  slain." — Drydcn. 

IT  would  be  "  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable"  to  go  into  a  de 
tail  of  the  boyish  scenes  which  the  young  companions  of  Spif- 
fard  planned  and  executed  as  a  trial  of  his  unsuspicious  cha 
racter,  and  as  a  source  of  amusement  for  themselves. 

Beaglehole  was  a  man  who  would  enter  with  all  his  heart  into 
Allen's  plot,  and  with  the  more  glee  as  it  was  to  be  played  off 
upon  a  Yankee.  Having  been  informed  of  the  preceding  tran 
sactions — the  particulars  of  the  first  acts  of  what  was  intended 
as  a  comedy — he  undertook  the  part  of  Captain  John  Smith's 
friend,  and  waited  upon  Spiffard. 

"  My  name  is  Beaglehole,  sir."  Spiffard  bowed.  The  vi 
sitor  repeated,  "Beaglehole,  sir." 

44 1  have  no  acquaintance  of  that  name." 

"  My  friend,  Captain  John  Smith,  you  know  him,  sir." 

"  I  do  not,  sir." 

"  You  addressed  certain  words  to  him  at  the  theatre  which 
require  explanation." 

"  I  spoke  very  plainly." 

"  He  demands  an  apology." 

"I  have  none  to  make." 

"  I  am  directed  by  him  to  call  on  you,  and,  if  no  apology  is 
made,  I  am  requested  to  see  your  friend.  You  have  nothing 
further  to  say  to  me,  sir?" 

"  Nothing.  I  was  called  to  a  meeting  with  a  Captain  Smith, 
and  went  with  the  intention  of  representing  the  impropriety  of 


154  Hoax  continued.     The  button  duellist. 

his  conduct ;  with  you,  sir,  I  shall  not  enter  into  any  discus 
sion  of  the  subject.  I  neither  know  you  nor  Captain  John 
Smith. 

"  You  have  consulted  a  friend  on  the  subject  ?" 

"  I  have  spoken  to  several  on  what  I  considered  imperti 
nence.  The  last  person  was  Mr.  Thomas  Allen." 

"  I  know  him  well.  A  man  of  honour.  I  will  wait  upon 
your  friend,  sir." 

"  As  you  please.  You  certainly  may  wait  upon  whom  you 
choose  to  serve." 

The  button-merchant  was  not  satisfied  that  the  scheme 
worked  well ;  but  he  reported  to  Allen — not  exactly  the  words 
as  delivered. 

It  was  so  contrived  by  the  quizzers  that  the  next  day  they 
were  to  meet  in  front  of  the  theatre,  and  draw  SpifTard  from 
his  business  of  the  stage,  so  that  he  might  witness  a  precon 
certed  pantomimic  interview  between  Allen  and  Beaglehole. 
Accordingly,  Spiffard's  attention  was  drawn  to  the  gentlemen 
by  a  remark  made  by  Hilson. 

"  What  are  Allen  and  Beaglehole  so  earnestly  talking  about 
over  there  in  the  park?" 

"  Settling  a  race,"  said  one  of  the  club,  "or  a  hopping- 
match.  I  will  pit  Young  for  a  hop  against  anything." 

"  Except  a  flea,"  said  Hilson, 

"  But  for  a  race  I'll  back  Beaglehole." 

"  Do  you  think  he  could  carry  your  weight?" 

"  None  of  your  quibbling,  Tarn.  He'll  beat  any  man  I  know 
at  a  run." 

"  The  Colonel  shall  beat  him,  if  the  enemy  is  in  the 
rear." 

*'  Tom,  I  must  fight  you  yet ;  by  this  I  must."  And  he 
touched  a  bauble  suspended  by  a  riband  on  his  breast. 

"  What?  the  goose-and-gridiron  at  your  button-hole?" 

"  The  eagle,  sir." 

"  Your  Ben  Franklin — poor  Richard — says  the  eagle  is  a 
dishonest  bird.  The  goose  would  have  been  much  better  as 
the  emblem  of  rusticity  or  wisdom." 

"  Beaglehole  shall  beat  any  man  in  America  at  a  race  on 
all-fours,"  said  Cooper. 

•'  High,  low,  jack  and  the  game,"  said  Hilson  ;"  that's  all- 
fours." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  :  at  running  on  hands  and  feet." 

"  That  depends  on  length  of  arms.  The  Colonel's  are  longer 
than  any  man's  since  Rob  Roy.  But  see,  the  two  gentlemen 


Hoax  continued.     The  button  duellist.  15& 

are  taking  leave  of  each  other.  How  formally  they  bow  and 
touch  their  hats.  The  match  is  made." 

Spiffard  saw  the  two  gentlemen  apparently  conversing  with 
great  earnestness  ;  and  after  a  considerable  time  he  saw  them 
separate,  each  bowing  with  that  kind  of  ceremony,  which,  to 
the  attentive  comedian,  indicated  an  appointment,  in  the  fulfil 
ment  of  which,  he,  like  the  felon  on  his  way  to  the  gallows,  was 
to  be  the  principal  performer. 

Those  who  were  in  the  secret  enjoyed  the  earnest  and  eager 
glances  of  Spiffard  at  the  two  ceremonious/r«ewcfo  of  himself  and 
Captain  Smith.  Mr.  Beaglehole  having  dissappeared,  Allen 
joined  the  knot.  But  the  result  of  this  important  interview 
must  be  reserved  for  Spiffard's  private  ear,  and  the  torture  of 
suspense  protracted  as  long  as  possible, 

"  What  have  you  and  Beaglehole  been  settling  so  gravely  1" 
asked  one. 

"  Nothing/' 

"  '  Nothing  comes  of  nothing,'  "  said  Hilson.  "  What  match 
have  you  been  making  ?  His  bay  against  your  gray,  or  him 
self  against  Young  for  a  hop  ?" 

"  It's  most  likely  a  pistol-firing  at  Tyler's,"  said  another. 

Although  Spiffard  had  determined  not  to  fight  a  duel,  yet  the 
thought  of  controversy  with  a  duellist  was  excessively  annoy 
ing.  He  might  be  insulted — perhaps  reduced  to  the  necessity 
of  repelling  blows  by  blows,  At  length  he  was  informed  that 
Mr.  Beaglehole  would  immediately  acquaint  Captain  Smith 
that  an  apology  was  denied,  and  of  course  the  captain's  pre 
sence  necessary.  Spiffard  did  not  see  the  necessity.  He 
said  nothing — but  he  was  impatient  to  have  the  affair  over. 

Two  more  days  pass  gloomily  at  home.  The  teasing  ques 
tion  again  is  asked,  "  Wat's  the  matter,  Mr.  Spiffard?"  and 
the  uncharacteristic  answer  made — "  Nothing." 

Then  comes  a  notification  that  Captain  Smith's  second  hav 
ing  written  to  his  principal,  said  principal  would  be  in  New- 
York  the  next  day.  Accordingly  Beaglehole  informs  Alien 
that  Smith  expects  the  rencontre  at  7  o'clock  the  next  morn 
ing.  Notice  is  given  to  Spiffard  by  Allen  that  he  had  agreed 
to  the  appointment.  And  thus,  although  without  fear  of  death 
or  the  necessity  of  committing  murder  to  avoid  it,  the  young 
man  is  doomed  to  another  day  and  night  of  anxiety.  He  had 
said  enough  on  the  subject  to  have  made  a  real  second  throw 
up  the  office  ;  but  it  was  not  the  wish  of  Allen  and  his  partners 
in  mischief  to  understand;  therefore  preparations  were  made; 
and  Spiffard,  willing  to  be  from  home,  (where  his  looks  were 


156  Hoax  continued.     The  button  duellist. 

•watched  with  very  different  feelings  from  those  they  produced 
upon  the  hoaxers),  was  induced  to  pass  the  hour  of  dinner 
which  engrossed  the  evening  with  the  same  circle  of  convivial- 
ists,  who  were  sporting  with  his  honest  credulity,  and  enjoying 
every  token  of  his  uneasiness. 

It  was  now  necessary  that  a  new  cause  should  be  assigned 
for  the  disappointment  of  the  next  morning.  A  pretext  must 
be  found  for  the  not  meeting  of  combatants  both  so  ready  to 
meet,  but  who  never  could  meet.  A  plot  was  suggested,  dis 
cussed,  agreed  upon,  and  put  in  practice. 

The  first  time  that  Spiffard  joined  the  party,  (after  the  im 
portant  arrangement),  it  happened  that  he  entered,  as  frequently 
occurred,  sometime  after  the  cloth  had  been  removed,  and  the 
nuts  and  jokes  had  been  cracked  until  attention  was  called  to 
the  colonel's  history  of  his  first  campaign,  or  some  other  story 
which  was  a  joke  to  the  company. 

*•  The  invasion  of  New-Jersey  had  broken  up  the  school  at 
which  I  had  been  flogged,  in  the  hope  of  fitting  me  for  Prince 
ton  college  ;  and  to  mv  great  joy,  I  was  at  liberty  for  any  mis 
chief,  without  having  the  fear  of  the  ferule  before  my  eyes.  I 
have  told  you,  that  when  the  volunteers  and  minute-men  turned 
out  and  trained,  the  boys  of  Burlington  formed  themselves 
into  a  company  and  trained  too." 

"  Yes,  Colonel,"  said  Hilson,  "you  have  told  that  once  —  or 


44  No,  not  twice.  I  never  tell  my  stories  twice  to  the  same 
company.  I  never  fight  my  battles  o'er  again  —  give  us  that 
decanter  —  over  again,  more  than  once  to  the  same  —  lis 
teners  -  " 

'*  Well,  fill,  and  push  the  decanter  this  way  ;  and  push  on  —  }? 

*'  Where  was  I  ?» 

"Just  out  of  school." 

"  Home  didn't  suit  me.  My  head  was  full  of  drums,  and 
—  by  the  by,  did  I  tell  you  that  I  was  drummer  to  our  com 
pany,  and-  --  " 

44  You  were  determined  to  make  a  noise  in  the  world." 

"  A  stale  joke,  Hilson.     Well,  colonel  --  " 

*4  1  determined  to  join  the  army,  and  run  away  -  " 

*4  A  most  heroic  resolution  !" 

*4  From  home." 

"  I  thought  it  was  from  the  enemy." 

"  Tom,  none  of  your  jokes." 

44  Go  on,  colonel." 

44  1  was  thought  too  small  for  a  musket,  and  so  I  offered  my- 


Hoax  continued.     The  button  duellist.  157 

self  for  drummer  in  a  Pennsylvania  regiment,  and  was  accept 
ed.  Well,  my  first  knowledge  of  the  whistling  of  a  bullet  was 
at  Trenton." 

"  Ah  !  That  was  when  you  stooped  down  and  pretended  to 
buckle  your  shoe,  while  the  Hessians  made  the  balls  whistle 
about  the  ears  of  those  who  carried  their  heads  too  high." 

"  Let  me  light  this  cigar  before  I  give  you  the  battle  of 
Trenton." 

The  entrance  of  the  Vermonter  gave  an  opportunity  to 
change  the  subject  which  was  gladly  seized,  and  the  battle  of 
Trenton,  which  had  been  made  rather  familiar,  was  postponed 
for  the  present. 

When  Spiffard  was  preparing  to  go  home,  Allen  accosted 
him  thus  : 

44  It  is  necessary,  Mr.  Spiffard,  that  our  watches  should  be 
in  unison.  We  must  be  punctual.  Rather  before  the  time. 
How  is  yours  ?"  . 

"  It  wants  five  minutes  of  twelve." 

"  I'm  exactly  half  past  eleven." 

All  the  company  applied  to  their  watches,  and  all  in  concert 
cried,  "  half  past  eleven,"  except  Hilson,  who  said,  "  it  is 
only  fifteen  minutes  past  eleven,  by  Saint  Paul's,  the  orthodox 
clock,  and  by  Saint  Paul's,  I  go." 

il  Every  time  you  go  to  the  theatre.  No  :  it  is  exactly  half 
past  eleven." 

All  cried  out,  "  Half  past  eleven;"  and  Allen,  asking  Spiffard 
for  his  watch,  and  putting  it  back  twenty  minutes,  said,  "  there 
now,  it  is  exactly  ten  minutes  too  fast,  It  is  best  for  you  to  be 
before  the  time." 

"  I  should  not  think  so,  if  I  was  going  to  be  hung,  or  shot," 
said  Hilson,  "  but  every  one  to  his  liking." 

'*  I  tell  you  what,  Spiff,"  said  the  colonel,  "  you  had  better 
go  to  bed  and  sleep  soundly,  or  you  may  not  be  in  nerve.  I 
make  it  a  rule  on  such  occasions  to  take  a  hearty  supper,  my 
bottle  of  sherry  or  ma'deira,  as  it  may  be  ;  then  sleep  till  my 
waiter  calls  me  ;  take  a  bracer  ;  keep  my  hands  warm  during 
the  ride  or  the  sail,  as  it  may  be  ;  and,  with  all  my  muscles  in 
order,  coolly  take  my  ground  and  my  aim.  Then,  quick  upon 
the  trigger,  your  man's  down.  Good  night." 

It  will  be  perceived  from  the  foregoing  that  the  meeting  was 
talked  of  freely  by  the  company;  and  as  a  meeting  of  death- 
doing  purpose.  Spiffard  had  given  hints,  or  more  than  hints, 
of  his  intentions,  but  they  were  passed  by  as  unheard.  The 
tormentors  were  determined  to  try  him. 


158 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Another  victim. 


" It  presses  on  my  memory 

Like  damned  guilty  deeds  to  sii 


sinners'  minds." 

" Those  that  can  pity,  here 

May,  if  they  think  it  well,  let  drop  a  tear." 

"  The  pale-faced  moon  looks  bloody  on  the  earth." 

"hough  what  I  am  I  cannot  avoid,  yet  to  be  what  I  would  not,  shall 
not  make  me  tame." 

"  And  when  I  ask'd  you  what  the  matter  was, 
You  stared  upon  me  with  ungentle  looks." — Shakspeare. 

WHILE  Spifiard  was  passing  his  time  with  companions  so 
unlike  himself,  what  was  doing  at  the  house  which  ought  to 
have  been  his  home  ? 

It  was  past  eleven  o'clock,  and  fast  approaching  midnight. 
In  the  same  apartment,  which  the  reader  may  rememher  being 
introduced  to  at  the  commencement  of  this  history,  sat  Mrs. 
Epsom,  her  daughter,  and  her  niece.  They  were  all,  at  this 
late  hour,  busily  employed.  They  surrounded,  or  occupied, 
different  sides  of  a  table,  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  on  which 
towered  a  brilliant  lamp,  throwing  a  pleasant  mellow  light, 
through  its  transparent  shade,  over  the  three  very  dissimilar 
figures  and  the  materials  on  which  they  were  employed.  All 
were  silent.  The  two  actresses,  mother  and  daughter,  were 
intent  upon  what  they  called,  in  the  technical  language  of  the 
stage,  study.  Each  had  a  manuscript  before  her ;  that  is,  a 


Another  victim.  159 

part.  Before  the  old  lady  was  an  empty  tumbler  and  a  snuff 
box.  The  lips  of  the  students  occasionally  moved,  though  no 
sounds  proceeded  from  them.  Mrs.  Spiffard,  at  this  moment, 
leaned  with  her  elbow  on  the  table,  shading  her  fine  eyes  with 
her  right  hand  ;  the  next  she  darted  a  look  to  the  ceiling,  her 
lips  moved  with  greater  energy,  and  her  sable  brows  were  al 
most  brought  in  contact. 

Emma  Portland's  countenance  was  as  serene  as  the  sky  of 
an  American  October  night,  when  every  star  shoots  its  light, 
and  seems  to  smile  on  the  face  that  is  upturned  to  heaven. 
She  was  occupied  by  the  mysteries  of  the  needle,  and  seemed 
te  approach  the  happy  termination  of  the  evening's  labours,  for 
she  lifted  the  «'  fringed  curtains"  which  had  veiled  her  eyes,  and 
glancing  them  rapidly  upon  her  all-absorbed  companions,  let 
them  fall  again,  as  she  inserted  her  needle  into  the  green  cloth 
of  the  table.  She  then,  with  both  hands,  raised  and  extended 
the  garment  she  had  been  working  on,  and  cried,  with  an  air 
of  satisfaction,  as  she  exposed  the  glittering  dress  to  view, 
"  look,  cousin  !  it  is  done  !" 

She  received  no  answer.  She  turned  her  eyes  from  the  gay 
and  gorgeous  robe  to  the  person  who  was  to  wear  it  before  de 
lighted  thousands.  That  person  was  in  tears.  This  is  not 
only  a  picture  of  mimic  life.  The  gay  and  the  gorgeous  is 
the  mask  of  misery  in  "  city,  camp,  and  court." 

Emma  folded  the  stage-dress  carefully,  and  removing  it  and 
the  instruments  of  seamstress  craft,  lit  a  small  brass  chamber- 
lamp,  and  withdrew,  unnoticed,  to  pass  a  few  minutes  before 
sleep,  in  reading,  thought,  and  prayer. 

Mrs.  Spiffard  threw  down  the  manuscript.  "  It  is  all  in 
vain.  The  words  convey  no  meaning,  while  my  mind  is  else 
where,  contemplating  the  past.  Thinking  of  what  must  come. 
It  shall  come  !" 

"  My  dear,  you  took  no  supper.  I  will  mix  a  little  brandv- 
toddy.  Let  Mr.  Spiffard  say  what  he  will,  you  need  it."  And 
she  left  the  table,  and  prepared  two  large  tumblers  of  the  be 
verage.  Having  left  her  spectacles  on  the  table,  she  put  a 
greater  portion  of  brandy,  by  mistake.  The  unhappy  daughter 
walked  the  floor  ;  then  sat  down  and  attempted  to  read.  The 
mother  drank  her  part  of  the  mixture,  and  placing  the  other 
tumbler  near  her  daughter,  sat  down  demurely  to  study,  after 
mixing  another  glass  for  herself. 

Again  Mrs.  Spiffard  rose  and  walked  the  room.  She  broke 
tbe  silence  as  if  unconscious  of  her  mother's  presence.  " 


160  Another  victim. 

•mine  is  no  common  lot !  To  lose  one  who  adored  me !  A  man 
like  Trowbridge  ?  Torn  from  me  at  such  a  moment — in  such 
a  manner ! — driving  me  to — 0  !  why  did  I  live  1 — Why  do  I 
live  V  She  approached  the  table,  seized  the  poisoned  mix 
ture — lifted  the  tumbler  to  her  lips — suddenly  put  it  down — and 
again  walked  the  floor.  Her  agitation  increasing  every  mo 
ment,  she  abruptly  stopped  and  addressed  her  mother  : — 

"  But  for  you,  madam,  I  should  never  have  married  this 
jnan.  I  have  been  a  hypocrite.  I  have  deceived  him.  We 
must  be  miserable.  Trowbridge  was  my  countryman !  Shall 
I  be  tyrannized  over — neglected — by  a  man  I  do  not — yes, 
you  know  it — I  do  not  love."  She  approached  the  table  and 
seized  the  fatal  vessel,  and,  as  if  possessed  by  a  demon,  emp 
tied  the  poisoned  draught  to  the  dregs.  "  I  will  not  be  a  slave 
lo  any  man,  I  will  not  be  a  hypocrite." 

"  You  need  not  be,  my  dear,  your  talents  will  enable  you  to 
live  independant.  The  stage — your  profession — ." 

"  Talents  !  Cursed  be  my  talents,  and  accursed  the  stage 
on  which  they  have  been  exhibited.  I  did  not  choose  this  vile 
profession,  which  has  led  me  to  shame,  and  guilt,  and  misery  ! 
You  taught  me  to  tread  the  stage,  and  fitted  me  for  the  outcast 
thing  I  am.  I  have  been  shunned — am  despised — no,  nos 
no — "  She  approached  the  table  and  seized  the  glass  her  mo 
ther  had  prepared  for  herself,  more  potent  than  the  first :  in 
fact,  half  brandy  ;  and  which  she  had  been  sipping  to  prolong 
enjoyment,  and  left  almost  full.  In  an  instant  the  unhappy 
victim  of  ungoverned  passion  swallowed  the  whole. 

"  Bless  me — why  you  have  drank  rny  toddy — ,"  and  she 
helped  herself  to  another  glass,  bade  the  daughter  good  night, 
and  went  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Spiffard  now  was  braced  to  a  pitch,  little  short  of  mad 
ness,  and,  with  the  looks  and  movements  of  a  fury,  she  paced 
the  room,  revolving  in  her  mind  past  scenes,  and  working  her 
self  up  to  a  state  of  defiance  and  determined  warfare.  She  at 
last  heard  her  husband  knock.  She  had  been  wishing  for  the 
moment  when  the  thunder  she  had  accumulated  should  be  dis 
charged  on  the  tyrant ;  but  instantly  a  revulsion  of  feel 
ings  took  place  that  occasioned  her  to  sink  in  a  chair.  Was, 
it  conscience?  She  felt  that  she  had  been  wrong-doing  for 
months  and  years,  and  was  then  unfit  to  see  the  man  she  had 
made  her  husband.  All  the  proud  feelings,  and  the  train  of 
proud  thoughts,  inspired  by  the  forbidden  draught,  were  gone  ;. 
all  the  unnatural  strength  which  the  fell  poison  had  imparted^ 


Another  victim.  161 

fled  and  left  her  :  nerveless  mists,  and  clouds,  and  darkness, 
gathered  round  her.  Again  her  husband  knocked,  and  she 
recollected  that  she  was  the  only  person  up  in  the  house — she 
started — she  felt  that  her  limbs  were  not  at  her  perfect  com 
mand,  and  the  apartment  swam  and  danced,  as  she  with  effort 
seized  the  chamber-light.  The  thought  of  her  degraded  con 
dition  flashed  on  her,  accompanied  by  the  perfect  recollection 
of  the  last  serious  warning  uttered  by  the  man  she  was  now 
to  encounter. 

Her  husband  had  parted  from  his  mischievous  tormentors  in 
no  very  enviable  mood.  He  took  his  leave  with  a  forced  non 
chalance.  "Pleasant  dreams  to  you  Spiff,"  said  Hilson.  Spiffard 
turned  as  he  strided  through  the  door-way,  and  as  he  saw  every 
eye  fixed  on  him  (for  they  all  waited  his  departure  for  a  burst 
of  merriment)  he  felt  an  underinable  suspicion  which  he  would 
have  been  glad  to  have  welcomed  as  reality ;  but  it  passed — 
**  good  night,"  and  moistening  his  lip,  by  passing  his  tongue 
rapidly  over  it,  he  strode  from  the  meeting.  Should  he  go 
home  1  Not  yet.  He  had  parted  from  his  wife  ungently. 
Her  image  recalled  that  of  his  mother.  His  mother  in  that 
form  which  had  haunted  his  imagination  through  life ;  that 
form  which  was  his  evil  genius.  He  turned  into  Broadway 
and  sought  the  cold  breezes  with  which  the  broad  expanse  of 
waters  pour  on  that  unrivalled  public  walk,  the  Battery. 

"  My  life  has  been  chequered  and  full  of  events  to  over 
flowing,  yet  but  one  hope  did  I  ever  entertain  of  rest  or  happi 
ness.  One  hope  suggested  by  one  image.  I  had  seen  the 
misery  consequent  on  marriage  where  the  wife  was  beautful, 
but  unendowed  with  mind.  I  knew  I  could  only  be  happy  or 
contented  in  the  marriage  state,  and  I  sought  a  partner  who 
had  intelligence,  genius,  spirit.  I  found  one." 

Our  hero  was  doomed  to  suffer,  during  the  spring  and  sum 
mer  of  his  life,  from  one  cause.  He  had  seen  that  his  unhappy 
parent  was  devoid  of  intellectual  powers  or  cultivation,  and  he 
attributed  her  fall  to  that  alone.  He  had  mistakenly  concluded, 
that  where  a  strong  mind,  wit,  spirit,  genius,  and  intelligence, 
resided,  so  sordid  a  vice  as  that  he  most  abhorred  could  not 
have  gained  an  entrance.  He  had  seen  that  his  theory  was 
contradicted  by  the  practice  of  the  great  tragedian ;  but  this 
conviction  came  after  he  had  become  the  admirer  of  the  bril 
liant  and  spirited  woman  he  had  made  his  wife.  He  did  not 
know  that  the  want  of  good  early  education,  of  that  education 
which  teaches  the  love  of  God  and  our  neighbour,  (that  en 
during  love  which  is  founded  on  the  contemplation  of  the  Crea- 


162  Another  victim. 

tor's  infinite  goodness  and  mercy,  filling  the  heart  with  thank 
fulness  to  him  and  charity  to  his  creatures,  and  comprising 
the  second  command  in  the  first) — he  did  not  know  that  the 
want  of  this  early  education,  which  teaches  our  duty  in  so 
ciety,  and  a  knowledge  of  the  organization  of  that  society,  of 
which  we  form  a  part,  and  on  which  our  happiness  depends — 
in  short,  he  did  not  know,  that  without  these  fundamental  prin 
ciples  of  religion  and  morality,  the  most  splendid  talents  availed 
nothing  in  the  struggle  man,  or  woman,  has  to  maintain  against 
passion  within  and  temptation  without.  He  proceeded  soli 
loquizing  almost  audibly.  "  Yes !  she  has  a  quickness  and 
strength  of  mind  that  1  never  expected  to  have  found  in  wo 
man  !  Could  I  have  thought  that  such  an  one  had  yielded  to 
the  same  demon  who  had  poisoned  my  father's  days  !  And  for 
her  sake  I  am  now  engaged  in  what  may  terminate  in  vio 
lence  !  And  she — perhaps — no — no — after  what  has  passed  it 
is  impossible.  I  will  go  home — I  was  too  harsh — I  will  say 
so — I  will  not  press  my  pillow  without  forgiving  and  forgive 
ness — Forgiveness! — As  we  forgive. — She  has  probably  been 
unhappy  all  day.  and  now  waits  for  me  in  anxiety  and  tears." 
He  had  turned  his  steps  homeward  at  the  first  thought  of  re 
conciliation,  and  now  stalked  along  with  more  than  usual 
length  of  stride.  He  reached  the  door  arid  knocked.  The 
interval  between  his  first  and  second  knocking  was  filled  by 
thoughts  varying  so  quickly,  that  to  attempt  to  fix  them  here 
would  be  to  chain  the  words  ;  but  regret  for  the  harshness  of 
his  former  expostulations  and  tenderness  towards  his  wife  pre 
ponderated.  She  opened  the  door,  and  the  light  she  held  in 
her  hand  displayed,  as  in  the  noon-day  sun,  her  face,  and  the 
terrible  realities  therein  written.  She  smiled — but  such  a 
smile  ! — She  attempted  to  say,  "  I  am  glad  you  have  come" — 
but  her  tongue — no  !  the  picture  is  too  horribly  disgusting — let 
the  consequences  suggest  it  to  the  reader's  imagination. 

The  whole  truth  flashed  upon  the  unhappy  husband,  and  he 
stood  a  moment  motionless.  The  thought  passed  through  his 
mind  of  turning  from  the  door. — "  Then  I  must  account  for 
my  conduct  to  my  friends — they  will  attribute  it  to  the  ap 
proaching  meeting."  He  passed  on  in  silence,  leaving  his 
wife  at  the  door.  He  entered  the  dining-room,  and  saw  the 
disordered  appearance  of  the  table  ;  the  manuscript,  tumbler, 
extinguished  lamps,  spectacles  left  behind  by  the  mother,  were 
seen  by  the  glimmering  light  which  the  wife  held  in  one  hand, 
while  with  the  other  she  fruitlessly  endeavoured  to  lock  and 
bolt  the  street-door ;  willingly  protracting  the  absence  from, 
her  husband. 


Another  victim.  163 

Reason,  so  cruelly  banished,  returned  with  a  whip  of  scor 
pions  brandished  aloft  and  threatening  destruction.  Conscience 
frowned  with  the  aspect  of  Medusa.  The  torpor  of  the  senses 
gave  way  rapidly,  and  the  truth  appearing  through  the  mist  of 
intoxication,  was  discoloured  and  distorted,  and  exaggerated 
into  monstrous  forms  that  cried,  "  despair." 

"  She  had  bolted  the  street-door,  and  could  no  longer  defer 
the  interview  she  dreaded.  She  came  into  the  dining-room 
rigidly  bracing  her  limbs  to  a  steadiness  they  refused  ;  the  lamp 
she  bore  threw  its  glare  over  her  features  ;  an  effort  at  coun 
terpoise  partly  succeeded  as  she  lifted  her  sight  to  the  figure 
of  her  husband,  who  had  seated  himself  without  taking  off  his 
hat,  and  resting  his  hands  on  his  cane,  fixed  his  piercing  and 
projecting  eyes  upon  her  face  with  an  intentness  that  seemed 
to  her  supernatural.  She  again  attempted  to  speak  and  to 
smile — but  the  mental  powers  were  restored  before  the  phy 
sical — the  smile  was  ghastly — the  sound  of  the  voice  was  dis 
cordant.  "  I  am  glad  you  have  come — I — "  At  that  mo 
ment  the  comb  intended  to  ornament  and  support  her  massive 
hair,  and  which  had  been  previously  displaced  without  her 
consciousness,  fell  on  the  floor,  and  her  thick,  disordered,  un 
seemly  locks  rushed  over  her  neck  and  face,  adding  a  wildness 
to  the  features  that  may  be  pictured  by  the  imaginative,  but  can 
not  be  described. 

Spiffard  had  collected  his  discomfited  thoughts  and  brought 
them  so  far  into  subordination,  that  his  mind  was  made  up  for 
the  exigence  of  the  moment.  He  rose  from  his  seat,  took  up 
the  fallen  comb  which  the  unhappy  woman  was  endeavouring 
to  recover,  but  which,  as  her  desheveled  hair  streamed  over 
her  eyes  by  the  action  of  bending  to  the  floor,  she  could  not 
see.  He  took  the  lamp  from  her  hand,  and  placed  the  comb 
deliberately  in  it.  He  threw  aside  his  cane,  and  taking  her 
by  the  unoccupied  hand  led  her  silently  to  her  chamber ;  the 
unhappy  woman  suffering  herself  to  be  assisted,  and  seeming 
utterly  abandoned  to  despair. 

Spiffard  did  not  go  beyond  the  door  of  the  chamber ;  but, 
having  placed  her  within,  he  put  the  lamp  in  her  cold  hand,  and, 
in  the  act  of  retiring,  stept  back  from  her,  at  the  same  time 
taking  hold  of  the  door,  and  gently  drawing  it  between  his  wife 
and  himself,  showed  his  intention  to  depart. 
''•   A  terrible  thought  presented  itself  to  the  miserable  woman. 
She  bent  her  eyes  upon  her  husband,  all  their  brilliancy  more 
than  restored,  while  she  said,  in  a  faltering  tone,  "  are  you 
sr?" 
Yes." 


164  Another  victim. 

11  You  will  not  leave  me — you  will  come — "  She  paused. 

He  gently  pulled  the  door  towards  him,  as  he  said  solemnly  r 
"  never." 

They  were  separated  for  ever. 

She  did  not  attempt  to  open  the  door.  It  was  not  fastened. 
The  key  was  in  the  lock,  and  inside.  She  looked  at  the  door 
as  if  she  still  saw  him.  She  heard  him  slowly  descend  the 
stairs  in  the  dark.  She  heard  him  enter  the  room  they  had 
left,  and  heard  him  shut  the  door  after  him.  The  lamp  fell 
from  her  hand  as  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  where  sleep 
was  never  more  to  visit  her.  She  could  not  weep.  She  heard 
her  husband's  heavy  steps  as  he  walked  the  floor  beneath  by  the 
light  of  the  fire.  The  word  "  never,"  rang  as  a  knell  inces 
santly  in  her  ears ! 


365 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  phi  unveiled — almost. 

» 

"*  Have  I  laid  my  brain  in  the  sun,  and  dried  it,  that  it  wanlB  matter'to 
prevent  so  gross  o'erreaching." 

"  If  I  be  serv'd  such  another  trick,  I'll  have  my  brains  taken  out  and  but 
tered,  and  give  them  to  a  dog  for  a  new  year's  gift." 

"  'Tis  a  kind  of  good  deed  io  say  well ;  and  yet  words  are  not  deeds." 

Shakspeare. 

41  HE  is  a  good  fellow  after  all,  and  injures  no  one  but  him 
self."  Such  is  the  "  bald  disjointed  chat,"  that  thoughtless, 
mischievous,  vice-encouraging,  talk,  which  we  frequently  hear 
even  from  those  who  ought  to  know  better.  No  one  can  in 
jure  himself  without  injuring  others.  Very  frequently,  (per 
haps  always)  the  pain  is  felt  more  by  others  than  by  the  victim 
of  intemperance. 

It  is  the  very  nature  of  a  good  deed  to  reward  the  doer ; 
while  it  not  only  adds  to  the  happiness  of  those  who  receive 
the  immediate  benefit,  but  it  adds  to  their  disposition  to  do 
good  to  others.  It  makes  the  recipient  better,  and  promotes 
his  future,  with  his  present  happiness.  It  is  like  the  poet's 
mercy,  '*  twice  blest.  It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that 
takes."  The  light  flowing  from  a  good  example  has  no  limit. 
"  So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world."  Its  influence 
is  through  all  time  to  eternity. 

On  the  other  hand,  every  evil  thought,  if  not  rejected  instantly 
with  horror,  contaminates  the  thinker ;  and  probably  leads  to 
the  act  which  was  thought  of.  The  desire  to  do  evil  has  al 
ready  corrupted  the  heart.  The  indulgence  of  a  criminal  wish, 
gives  it  strength  ;  and  the  disposition  to  good  is  proportionably 
weakened.  Criminal  indulgence  spreads  its  baneful  influence 
like  a  pestilence.  Who  shall  calculate  the  misery  inflicted  by 
one  bad  example  ;  or  set  bounds  to  its  influence  ? 


166  The  plot  unveiled — almost. 

It  had  been  the  lot  of  Spiffard  to  see  one  vice  in  all  its  na 
tive  deformity ;  and  to  contemplate,  for  years,  the  misery  in 
flicted  by  the  weakness  of  one  individual,  on  all  connected  with 
her.  Here  example  did  not  produce  imitation,  because  the  evil 
effects  were  seen  and  understood  as  soon  as  the  cause.  The 
scenes  presented  to  him  in  his  father's  family,  when  a  child, 
though  not  then  understood  and  appreciated,  unfolded  them 
selves  in  their  deformity,  as  his  mind  expanded.  "  And  is  my 
father's  fate  to  be  mine  ?"  he  asked  himself.  '«  No,  no  !  Though 
a  fascination,  beyond  my  comprehension,  has  drawn  me  thus 
far  within  the  net,  I  can  and  will  burst  it !  I  have  been  rash — 
precipitate — have  deceived  myself;  but  I  will  not  be  the  father 
-of  children  whose  mother  is  no  mother  ;  who  are  born  to  dis 
ease  ;  and  whose  only  refuge  is  death." 

Such  were  his  thoughts  as  he  walked  the  floor,  or  occasion 
ally  threw  his  exhausted  limbs  on  an  unctishioned  sofa,  for 
change,  not  rest. 

As  soon  as  it  was  light,  he  sought  the  open  air.  It  was  cold, 
but  he  felt  it  not.  He  walked  the  pavement,  trying  to  devise 
some  means  of  extricating  himself  without  injury  to  his  unhappy 
wife.  He  had  yet  determined  on  no  mode  of  procedure,  when 
his  watch  gave  him  notice  that  the  time  he  had  appointed  with 
Allen  was  close  at  hand.  This  appeared  to  him,  now,  a  secon 
dary  business  ;  but  it  must  be  attended  to  ;  and  accordingly, 
he  met  his  false  friend  at  the  time  appointed,  as  guided  by  the 
time-indicator,  purposely  £et  wrong  on  the  preceding  evening, 
by  the  plotters  against  his  rest.  The  town^clock,  he  perceived, 
did  not  agree  with  his  watch  ;  but  then  Allen  and  Beaglehole 
had  set  their  watches  together,  and  their  time  was  to  regulate 
the  affair,  and  not  town-clocks,  or  even  suns. 

The  principal  and  his  friend  were  on  the  ground  at  ten 
minutes  before  the  time,  but  no  opponents  appeared.  Spif 
fard  was  not  only  disappointed  but  chagrined,  that  there  was  no 
Captain  Smith  to  be  found.  He  wanted  this  affair  off  his 
hands;  he  had  something  of  more  importance  on  his  heart. 
After  waiting  the  time  deemed  necessary  by  the  code  of  honour, 
as  Allen  chose  to  read  it,  they  departed. 

Spiffard  had  been  silent,  serious,  firm.  Allen  gave  him  great 
credit  for  courage  :  of  course  he  knew  nothing  of  the  cause 
which  produced  so  great  an  alteration  in  his  deportment.  The 
unhappy  young  man  was  no  longer  anxious  and  restless  ;  but 
calm,  solemn,  deliberate.  The  quizzers  had  expected  a  report 
from  the  pretended  second,  that  would  convulse  them  with 
laughter  at  the  anticipated  trepidation  of  their  victim. 


The  plot  unveiled — almost,  167 

Allen  denounced  Captain  John  Smith  as  a  poltroon,  and 
asserted  his  intention  to  call  upon  the  second,  Mr.  Beaglehole, 
for  explanation  and  satisfaction.  He  went  so  far  as  to  advise 
Spiffard  to  post  the  captain.  This  would  have  been  a  capital 
joke.  To  expose  his  friend  to  redicule  for  posting  a  nonentity,, 
— an  imaginary  antagonist — as  a  coward.  Spiffard  only  an 
swered  by,  "  No  more  of  it." 

The  friends  separated.  The  second  to  recount  to  the  com 
bined  hoaxers  the  result  of  the  appointment  between  his  princi 
pal,  and  the  shadowy  Captain  Smith  ;  in  which  they  were 
disappointed ;  not  that  no  meeting  took  place,  but  that  their 
butt  had  behaved  in  such  a  manner  as  to  give  no  cause  for 
merriment  at  his  expense. 

Spiffard  was  undecided  what  course  to  pursue  in  his  unhappy 
situation.  Should  he  consult  with  Mr.  Littlejohn  1  Should  he 
make  known  his  misfortune  and  perplexity  to  Miss  Atherton? 
Objections  started  up  in  his  wavering  mind  to  both  ;  and  before 
he  had  determined  on  any  mode  of  procedure,  he  found  himself 
in  Wall-street,  and  on  his  way  to  Cooke's  lodgings. 

It  may  be  fairly  inferred  from  the  incidents  I  have  detailed, 
that  if  the  water-drinker  had  only  associated  with  water-drink 
ers— if  he  had  not,  by  his  choice  of  a  profession,  been  thrown 
into  the  intimate  society  of  men  whose  habits  were  at  variance 
with  his  own,  he  would  not  have  been  involved  in  the  perplexi 
ties,  uneasiness,  pain — not  to  say  misery — arising  from  a  sup 
posed  quarrel  with  a  supposed  personage  ;  which,  although  in 
fact,  unreal,  was  real  to  him,  and  productive  of  real  torture.  It 
is  further  probable  that  if  he  had  not  been  made  unhappy  in  his 
mind  by  the  mischievous  sport  of  these  young  men,  that  he 
would  not  have  been  peevish  and  irritable  at  home  ;  that  he 
would  not  have  had  a  secret  which  he  thought  necessary  to  hide 
from  his  wife  ;  that  instead  of  making  her  unhappy  by  his  ap 
parent  distrust,  he  might  have  gained  her  confidence  by  confi 
dence  and  kindness  ;  and  thus,  as  well  as  by  the  force  of  rea 
son,  have  reconciled  her  to  herself,  and  weaned  her  from  a  habit 
which  could  not  but  destroy  their  domestic  tranquillity. 

Still,  let  it  be  constantly  kept  in  mind,  that  the  young  gentle 
men  who  had  been  led,  step  by  step,  to  contrive  and  continue 
this  practical  joke,  which  inflicted  most  acute  pain,  most  real 
and  substantial  misery,  on  a  companion,  did  not  intend  his  suf 
fering,  and  had  no  knowledge  or  thought  of  its  extent.  They 
found  Spiffard  so  unexpectedly  credulous  and  confiding,  that  to 
their  imaginations,  he  appeared  almost  as  a  creature  of  another 
species — one  made  for  their  amusement.  Every  successful 


168  The  plot  unveiled — almost. 

experiment  led  to  another  and  another.  Sometimes  they  feared 
that  by  dropping  the  plot  too  suddenly,  their  victim  would  dis 
cover  the  trick  that  had  been  played  him,  and  they  were  con- 
scioud  that  they  were  obnoxious  to  his  serious  displeasure. 
Again,  when  over  the  festive  board,  which,  in  those  days,  was 
the  daily-board,  they,  in  mere  gaiety,  contrived  further  modes 
of  continuing  the  existence  of  Captain  Smith;  who,  as  a  crea 
ture  of  their  own,  was  a  favourite.  Of  the  domestic  woe  expe 
rienced  by  Spiffard,  they  had  no  knowledge.  They  could  have 
no  conception  of  the  addition  their  mirth  made  to  his  pain.  The 
man  who  was  the  leader  in  the  plot,  would  have  risked  fortune 
or  life  to  serve  the  person  he  tormented.  Allen  was  a  well- 
meaning  young  man,  overflowing  with  wealth,  health,  and 
animal  spirits.  Cooper  was  a  man  who  had  proved,  again  and 
again,  that  he  would  share  his  fortune,  however  hardly  earned, 
with  those  who  wanted  a  friendly  and  open  hand  to  assist  them  ; 
and  confront  any  danger  in  defence  of  a  worthy  or  oppressed 
object. 

Cooke  was  still  in  bed.  His  fatal  symptoms  daily  increased  ; 
and  it  was  only  by  means  of  stimulants  that  he  could  feel  any 
enjoyment  in  life,  or  fulfil  any  of  its  duties.  His  physicians 
knew  his  case  to  be  desperate,  and  only  watched  over  him  to 
prolong  existence,  and  make  it  as  comfortable  as  disease  and 
decay  would  permit.  . 

Before  Spiffard  entered  the  old  tragedian's  bed-chamber,  he 
encountered  the  faithful  Trustworthy  Davenport,  in  an  outer 
apartment,  and  after  receiving  answers  to  his  inquiries  respect 
ing  Mr.  Cooke,  he  was  puzzled  by  his  brother  Yankee's  re 
questing  permission  to  ask  him  a  question.  This  appeared 
very  unnecessary,  as  it  was  Trusty's  constant  practice  to  ask 
as  many  as  he  pleased. 

"  It's  none  of  my  business,  Mr.  Spiffard,  to  be  sure,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  you  have  been  troubled  of  late  :  and  though 
it's  none  of  my  business,  yet  I  think  it  is  every  man's  busi 
ness  to  be  concerned  for  any  body  he  thinks  well  of." 

"  But  what's  your  question,  Trusty  ?" 

"  Why  I've  no  right  to  ask — but  isn't  Mr.  Allen  a  good 
deal  of  what  may  be  called  a  quizzer?" 

"  After  your  country  fashion,  Davenport,  I  will  answer  your 
question  by  asking  one.  Has  Mr.  Allen  been  quizzing 
you?" 

•'*  No,  no !  He  knows  I've  seen  salt  water  without  shore,  as 
well  as  himself;  arid  for  that  matter,  so  have  you,  sir.  But 
I'm  not  the  game  for  such  sportsmen." 


Tlie  plot  unveiled— -afaost. 

"  What  is  it  you  aim  at?" 

'*  Don't  you  think,  sir,  that  the  same  set  of  quizzera  that 
made  Mr.  Cooke  fight  a  duel,  and  no  duel,  might  be  playing 
the  same  sort  of  frolick  again  1" 

A  beam  of  light  flashed  on  the  mental  vision  of  the  come 
dian,  but  only  to  confuse  him.  A  sea  of  troubled  thoughts 
tossed  tumultuously  on  his  brain.  "  Is  it  possible  that  any 
trick  has  been  played  off  on  me  ?  Impossible  !"  And  all  the 
circumstances  connected  with  Captain  Smith  were  called  up 
and  examined  in  haste.  They  were  dismissed.  They  were 
recalled.  "  Impossible  !  Could  they  ?  Would  they,  dare  1" 
All  this,  and  more,  occupied  but  a  moment.  Davenport 
gazed  inquiringly  in  his  face ;  but  could  gain  no  intelligence 
from  the  mingling  and  shifting  expressions  he  saw  there. 

"  Again?"  At  length,  said  Spiffard,  choosing  the  last  word. 
"Again?  Surely  there  has  been  no  attempt  at  quizzing  Mr. 
Cooke  while  in  his  deplorable  situation." 

"  O,  no !  That  would  be  too  bad." 

Trusty  paused.  He  was  afraid  he  should  do  mischief.  Ho 
wished  to  communicate  his  knowledge  and  his  suspicions ; 
but,  thought  he,  "  I  may  do  more  harm  than  good."  He  waa 
silent  and  looked  confused. 

Spiffard  inquired — "  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  do  you 
know  ?" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Spiffard,"  said  Trusty,  '*  I  do  know  what  1 
mean,  and  I  know  I  mean  right,  and  I  know  you  mean  the 
same." 

"  I  know,"  said  Spiffard  smiling,  •'  that  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean." 

"  I  have  admired  at  your  endeavours,  sir,  to  save  Mr. 
Cooke,  who,  for  all  his  faults,  I  do  admire,  though  I  should 
be  sorry  to  imitate  him ;  but,  as  I  was  saying,  I  feel  interest 
for  you  the  more  for  your  interest  in  him.  But  as  to  what  I 
know,  I  don't  know  but  I  had  better  keep  it  to  myself,  and 
that  can  do  no  good.  I  doubt  whether  I  ought  to  tell,  be 
cause  I  overheard  it ;  not  that  I  listened  ;  that  I  scorn  ;  but  I 
was  obliged  to  hear ;  and  yet  I  heard  nothing  that  I  could 
make  head  or  tail  of;  but  I  heard  them  talking  in  a  way  that 
made  me  think,  whether  I  would  or  no,  that  some  scheme 
was  on  foot,  and  going  on,  for  their  fun  ;  and  that  it  concerned 
you  ;  and  yet,  as  to  what  I  know,  I  know  nothing  ;  for  all  I 
heard  was  altogether  beyond  understanding,  because  it  was 
incomprehensible," 


170  The  plot  unveikd — almost. 

44  Truly,  Trusty,  you  make  out  a  plain  case ;  but,  if  it  was 
plainer,  I  don't  see  how  I  am  concerned  in  it." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Spiffard,  I  can't  tell,  for  it  was  all  buzz  like,  a 
little  here  and  a  little  there  ;  and  if  the  thought  had  not  struck 
me  that  it  concerned  you,  I  should  not  have  put  it  together. 
One  said,  *  let  Simpson  do  it.'  *  No,'  said  another, '  he  will 
know  him.'  Then  somebody  said,  somebody,  I  did'nt 
lightly  hear  the  name,  4  he's  the  man.'  '  Ay,'  says  another, 
*  he  don't  know  him.'  And  then  they  laughed,  and  all  talked 
together,  so  that  I  could  only  catch  a  word  now  and  then  ;  but 
what  made  me  certain  that  it  must  be  either  you  or  me  that 
they  meant,  was,  that  I  heard  one  say,  *  If  we  could  make  him 
drink  a  glass  of  brandy,  it  might  do  ;  but  it's  hard  to  blind  a 
water-drinker.'  *  Pooh,'  said  another,  *  he'll  believe  any 
thing.'  Then,  thinks  I,  4  they  can't  mean  me.'  " 

Spiffard  bit  his  lip  and  frowned  ;  and  the  possibility  of  his 
haying  been  made  a  sport  for  these  young  men  again  occur 
red  ;  but  how,  was  a  perfect  enigma.  Besides,  they  were 
his  friends.  Some  of  them  had  proved  themselves  so.  The 
thought  was  not  to  be  reconciled  to  his  previous  knowledge  of 
them.  Captain  Smith  again  occurred,  and  some  misgivings; 
but  these  thoughts  were  so  confused  ;  so  irreconcileable  ;  so 
many  circumstances  appeared  to  contradict  the  images  which 
Trusty  had  conjured  up,  that  he  dismissed  them  as  mere  crea 
tures  of  the  good  fellow's  imagination,  entertained  by  him 
through  good  will. 

44  Do  you  know  any  thing  more,  Davenport?" 

44  I  know  nothing,  as  I  said  before  :  it  might  'a  been  me 
that  they  meant  when  they  said,  4  it's  hard  to  blind  a  water- 
drinker  ;'  but  when  they  said, ' 4  he'll  believe  any  thing,'  I 
knew  they  couldn't  mean  Trustworthy  Davenport.  Not  that 
I  mean  to  say — but  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  you  were  a 
very  easy-believing  gentleman  for  one  who,  like  myself,  have 
been  a  traveller." 

Further  colloquy  was  interrupted,  and  perhaps  further  dis 
covery  prevented,  by  the  arrival  of  another  person,  whose 
communications  and  their  consequence  we  shall  communicate 
in  due  time.  We  must  return  now  to  other  persons  of  our 
dramatic  history. 


171 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Real  repentance.     Love. 

"  And  what  is  love,  I  praie  ihee  tell  1 
It  is  that  fountain  and  that  well 
Where  pleasure  and  repentance  dwell ; 
It  is,  perhaps,  that  passing  bell 
Which  tolls  all  into  heaven  or  hell : 
And  this  is  love,  as  I  heare  tell." — Anon. 

"  Christianity  embraced  all  speculative  and  contested  maxims  in  those 
two  great  practical  and  incontestable  truths ; — adoration  to  one  God  and 
fraternity  and  charity  amongst  all  men." — La-marline. 

"  For  charity  itself  fulfills  the  law ; 
And  who  can  sever  love  from  charity?" — Shakspeare. 

*"  Those  words  which  sum  up  all  human  godliness — My  father.,  not  my 
will  but  thine  be  done. — Lamarlme. 

"  These  are  thy  glorious  works,  parent  of  good. 
Almighty !  Thine  this  everlasting  frame, 
Thus  wondrous  fair  :  thyself  how  wondrous  then, 
Unspeakable." — Milton. 

Like  the  lily 


That  once  was  mistress  of  the  field  and  flourish'd, 
I'll  hang  my  head  and  perish." — Khakspcare. 

"  Mercy  and  truth  have  met  together, 
Righteousness  and  peace  have  kissed  each  other. 

David  King  of  Israel, 

How  beautiful  is  that  religion  which  teaches  to  love  God 
above  all  things,  and  my  neighbour  as  myself!  religion  is  be 
nevolence,  and  benevolence  includes  every  virtue.  The  truly 
benevolent  cannot  be  uncharitable,  cannot  be  unfaithful,  cannot 
be  censorious,  cannot  be  impure  in  act  or  thought,  cannot  be 
selfish :  they  love  God  and  their  neighbours,  and  they  do  as 
they  would  be  done  by. 

But  who  is  religious  ?  Who  is  benevolent  ?  Who  is  at  all 


172  Real  repentance.     Love. 

times  pure  in  thought  and  deed  ?  Who  is  at  all  times  free  from 
censoriousness,  from  uncharitableness.  None.  No,  not 
one.  The  precepts  taught  us  as  those  on  which  "  hang  all  the 
law  and  the  prophets,"  the  love  of  God  and  the  love  of  our 
neighbour,  may  be  impressed  upon  the  heart  and  have  the 
whole  undivided  assent  of  the  understanding ;  while  the  rnind 
is  in  this  state  the  individual  is  religious.  But  the  cares  of 
the  world  must  at  times  occupy  the  thoughts,  and  its  jarring  col 
lisions  divert  the  mind  from  this  wholesome  state.  The  pas 
sions  which  have  been  cherished  by  bad  education  ;  the  in- 
dulgencies  that  have  become  habitual  before  the  beauty  of 
wisdom  was  perceived  ;  the  thousand  and  ten  thousand  occur 
rences  which  tempt  the  rich  to  uncharitableness,  and  the  poor 
to  envy  and  malice,  all,  by  turns,  banish  truth  from  the  mind. 
This  has  led  men  to  the  desert  and  to  the  monastery ;  to  be 
come  hermits  and  monks  ;  forgetting  that  religion  requires  to 
do  as  well  as  to  suffer.  Truth  becomes  effective  by  frequent 
contemplation ;  and  the  habitual  recurrence  of  its  precepts 
induces  practice. 

The  mother  and  brother  of  Emma  Portland  had  taught  her 
those  truths  by  precepts  and  example.  And  though  the  cares 
and  conflicting  incidents  of  life  might  have  distracted  her 
mind  from  them,  and  sometimes  even  suggested  thoughts  in 
opposition  to  them,  yet  she  habitually  cherished  them,  assidiv 
ously  recalled  them,  acted  in  conformity  to  them,  and  drove 
from  her  pure  breast  the  intruders  of  an  opposite  character  as 
soon  as  she  detected  "their  presence;  perhaps  this  is  all  that 
we  can  do ;  perhaps  it  is  all  that  is  required  of  us. 

Eliza  Atherton  was  another  creature  whose  purity  and  whose 
soul  was  love.  Her  lot  had  been  in  all  things  different  from 
Emma's.  Yet  the  result  was  nearly  the  same.  Miss  Ather 
ton  had  not  enjoyed  that  love  which  begets  love,  or  received 
that  education,  cither  by  example  or  precept,  which  leads  to  wis 
dom.  The  education  of  Emma  Portland  guarded  her  from 
the  intoxicating  effects  which  the  consciousness  of  possessing 
uncommon  beauty,  aided  by  the  admiration  it  elicits  from 
others,  might  have  produced.  Miss  Atherton  had  not  this 
temptation  to  contend  with.  And  the  almost  repelling  aspect 
produced  hy  disease,  added  to  the  neglect  of  her  weak  parents, 
and  the  preference  given  to  her  beautiful  sisters,  had  operated 
to  produce  the  cultivation  of  her  mind,  the  love  of  wisdom,  the 
desire  for  truth,  and  the  practice  of  forbearance,  forgiveness, 
love,  and  piety. 

These  two  beings,  so  unlike  in  appearance,  but  so  similar  in 


Real  repentance. — Love.  175 

mind  and  inclination,  were  kept  asunder  by  circumstances,  at 
this  time,  which  we  have  communicated  to  our  readers. 

On  the  night,  the  events  of  which,  as  they  are  connected 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spiffard,  we  have  dwelt  upon  at  somo 
length,  Eliza  Atherton,  and  her  trusty  English  servant,  Ellen 
Graves,  by  Jturns  watched  with  the  almost  exhausted  Mrs. 
Williams.  Though  both  were  watchers,  the  difference  between 
mental  and  physical,  was,  as  the  night  waned,  apparent.  Ellen 
slept.  Her  mistress  approached  her  sister  to  administer  me 
dicine,  which  was  to  be  given  at  stated  hours,  and  found  that 
although  under  the  influence  of  an  anodyne,  she  was  struggling 
and  in  ago*iy. "  The  tender  sister  raised  her,  to  assist  the  efforts 
of  nature  ;  she  opened  her  eyes  wildly,  with  an  expression  of 
terror,  and  a  cry  of"  save  me,  save  me  !" 

'*  Be  calm,  dear  sister !" 

"  Help  me  !    I  can't  go  !     He  forgave  me !  Eliza  !" 

"  I  am  here,  sister !  be  calm.     You  are  in  my  arms." 

"  Save  me,  Eliza  !     I  am  dying  !" 

44  You  are  not  yet  awake  !" 

44  O,  such  terrible  sights  !" 

41  It  was  only  a  dream  !" 

44 1  know  I  am  dying.  I  never  felt  so  before.  There  is  no 
hope  for  me  here  or  hereafter  !  I  saw  my  mother — my  father  ! 
I  murdered  them  !  I  am  without  hope  !" 

4'  They  forgave  you.     I  will  send  for  Doctor  Cadwallader.'* 

44  Send  for  Mr.  Carlton  to  pray  with  me.     I  can't  pray.*' 

44  Ellen !  Ellen  !    I  will  pray  with  you.     Ellen  !  Ellen  !" 

Eliza  Atherton  promptly  roused  the  sleeping  Ellen.  The 
other  servants  were  called,  and  one  of  the  men  was  dispatched 
for  Doctor  Cadwallader,  while  Ellen  being  sooner  ready  to 
go  out,  from  the  circumstance  of  being  a  watcher,  and  dressed, 
was  sent  to  request  the  attendance  of  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Carlton,  whose  church,  she,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  family, 
attended,  and  whose  place  of  residence  was  near.  Ellen  was 
unsuccessful.  The  reverend  Doctor  Carlton  had  not  returned 
from  a  concert  of  sacred  music  then  performing  in  his  church. 
It  was  past  eleven  o'clock.  As  the  young  woman  was  des 
cending  the  steps  from  the  clergyman's  door,  and  debating  with 
herself  whether  she  should  go  to  the  church,  or  return  home, 
she  saw  a  person  approach,  wrapt  in  a  black  cloak,  and  other 
wise  having  a  clerical  appearance.  She  hastened  to  meet  him, 
and  addressing  him  as  Doctor  Carlton,  requested  him  to  attend 
Mrs.  Williams,  who,  as  she  said,  was  dying,  and  wanted  his 
prayers. 

VOL.  II.  8 


174  Real  repentance. — Love. 

«•  I  am  not  Doctor  Carlton." 

••  But,  sir,  you  look  like  a  clergyman." 

"  I  am.     But  I  am  a  stranger  to  Mrs.  Williams." 

4<  She's  dying,  sir." 

**  She  may  not  wish  to  see  a  stranger." 

"  But,  sir,  are  you  of  the  church  of  England !" 

Ellen  was  one  of  those  who  had  been  taught  that  there  was 
but  one  way  to  heaven,  and  that  the  key  of  the  gate  was  in 
trusted  to  but  one  description  of  men. 

44  I  am  an  episcopal  clergyman,"  the  stranger  replied,  "  and, 
I  hope,  of  the  church  of  God," 

44  That's  what  I  mean,  sir  ;  but  I  am  a  stranger  in  America,, 
and  do  not  know  your  modes  of  speech." 

44 1  will  attend  you,  and  see  Mrs.  Williams.  If  she  will  per 
mit  me  to  join  with  her  in  the  prayers  of  the  church,  or  of  the 
heart,  I  will  attend  and  assist,  as  far  as  in  my  power,  to  recon 
cile  her  to  her  Maker." 

<4  She  will,  sir  ;  and  Miss  Atherton,  her  sister,  will  be  happy 
to  join,  sir,  for  she  is  as  good  a  church-woman  as  e?er  lived." 

And  Ellen  Graves  led  the  way  to  the  bed-side  of  the  dying 
woman,  after  having  received  her  mistress's  permission. 

The  clergyman  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  of  a  pale  complexion  ; 
in  fact,  his  face  was  destitute  of  any  warm  tint — it  was  white, 
and  contrasted  strongly  with  his  jet-black  eyes  and  hair.  His 
features  were  all  strongly  marked,  but  well  formed  ;  and  his 
countenance  far  from  austere.  His  eyes  were  brilliant ;  his 
hair,  in  large  dark  masses,  caused  the  whiteness  of  his  forehead 
and  cheeks  to  appear  like  alabaster.  The  intense  darkness  of 
the  colour  of  his  eyes,  and  their  prying  fixedness,  would  have 
been  overpowering,  but  for  the  serenity  of  his  brow,  and  the 
expression  of  benevolence  which  seemed  native  to  his  well- 
formed  but  colourless  lips. 

Mrs.  Williams  was  tranquil.  Ellen  brought  a  prayer-book,, 
and  presented  to  the  priest.  He  kneeled  by  the  bed-side. 
Eliza  Atherton  kneeled  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Her  faithful 
servant  kneeled  a  little  behind,  in  habitual  deference,  even  in 
what  she  felt  the  more  immediate  presence  of  Him,  before 
whom  all  are  equal.  The  clergyman  looked  at  the  sick 
woman,  and  her  opening  eyes  met  his.  He  commenced,  "  Let 
us  pray  !" 

4<  I  cannot  pray  !"  was  uttered  in  a  voice,  harsh,  broken,  un 
earthly.  44 1  cannot  die  !  O,  save  me  !" 

Miss  Atherton  rose,  and  gently  approached  her  sister  ;  rais 
ed  her  in  her  arms,  and  supported  her." 


Real  repentance. — Love. 

*'  Let  us  join  in  prayer  to  him  who  can  save,"  said  the 
stranger. 

'*  I  cannot !  I  am  dying  without  hope  !  I  murdered  my 
father  and  mother !  I  have  caused  my  own  death  !  Murder 
and  suicide  !" 

"  You  are  repentant." 

"  Dear  sister !  our  parents  lived  to  an  advanced  age  ;  your 
mother — your  father,  died  blessing  and  forgiving  you.  You 
have  suffered  from  and  repented  the  errors  of  youth  ;  and 
although  those  sufferings  misled  you  to  further  error,  you  are 
penitent,  and  heaven  is  merciful !" 

"  Your  earthly  father,"  added  the  priest,  "  forgave  you  ; 
how  infinitely  greater  is  the  forgiving  love  of  your  Father  who 
is  in  heaven.  To  doubt  his  mercy  is  sin ;  and  that  sin  must 
be  eschewed,  otherwise  you  cannot  die  in  peace,  or  feel  the 
love  of  the  Father,  who  is  all  love.  I  will  read  to  you  the 
words  of  him  who  is  all  truth  ;  and  of  whose  love  there  is  no 
end." 


*  Having  requested  of  my  friend,  Dr.  J.  W.  Francis,  to  give  me,  as  a  me- 
cal  man,  some  notices  of  the  effects  of  stimulants  upon  the  unhappy  per 
sons  who  have  been  induced  to  have  recourse  to  them  from  various 
causes,  he  has  favoured  me  with  a  very  interesting  letter  on  the  subject,  a 
part  of  which  I  will  here  introduce,  and  reserve  other  portions  for  subse 
quent  pages. 

NEW-YORK,  MARCH  31,  1836. 

DEAR  SIR — Your  interrogatories  are  distinctly  within  my  recollection, 
and  I  would  be  happy  to  give  them  the  fullest  answers,  were  the  subject 
susceptible  of  illustration  within  the  compass  of  an  ordinary  letter.  Your 
desire  to  embody  some  of  the  more  prominent  facts  connected  with  the 
phenomena  of  intemperance,  so  far  as  they  are  associated  with  morbid 
changes  in  the  physical  structure,  occurring  in  persons  who  have  long  in 
dulged  in  spirituous  potations,  is  such,  however,  as  induces  me,  though 
with  little  time  at  command,  hastily  to  put  together  a  few  leading  facts, 
from  which  you  and  other  general  readers,  may,  perhaps,  derive  the 
strongest  arguments  which  can  be  adduced,  on  medical  grounds,  against  the 
practice  of  using  ardent  spirits.  It  is  for  the  divine,  the  moralist,  and  the 
economist,  to  attack  the  pernicious  habit  on  other  principles  equally  potent. 
All  that  I  aim  at  on  this  occasion,  is  to  group  together,  for  your  special  use, 
a  number  of  the  most  striking  occurrences  which  we  encounter,  when  pro 
fessionally  called  upon  to  prescribe  for  the  intemperate,  or  to  perform  a 
more  unpleasant  service,  which  occasionally  presents  itself  as  a  duty ;  I 
mean  the  drawing  up  a  report  of  the  disordered  changes  wrought  by  alcohol 
in  the  corporeal  system  of  the  inebriate,  when  dead. 

The  malade  imaginaire  affords  a  pretty  good  proof  that  Moliere  drew  some 
of  his  leading  illustrations  from  cases  of  what  are  now  denominated  delirium 
tremens,  or  mania  a  pottt.  The  disturbed,  unequal,  and  often  exhausted  state 
of  the  faculties  of  the  minds  of  persons  who  have  long  indulged  in  spirituous 


176  Real  repentance. — Love. 

Such  was  the  effect  of  the  reading  of  this  gentleman,  which 
was  like  a  pure  full  stream,  issuing  from  the  heart,  that  the 
unhappy,  conscience-stricken  woman  was  restored  to  a  quiet 
resignation  to  the  will  of  her  Maker,  before  Doctor  Cadwalla- 
der  arrived.  He  saluted  the  clergyman  as  Mr.  Littlejohn. 

This  pious  and  tried  man,  now  possessing  health  of  bodj 
and  mind,  was  no  other  than  the  son  of  the  benevolent  mer 
chant  with  whom  the  reader  is  acquainted,  restored  to  the 
world,  and  to  his  father.  He  had  likewise  been  attending  tho 
concert  of  sacred  music,  but  had  left  it  earlier  than  the  rector 
of  the  church,  Doctor  Carlton. 


drinks,  is  familiarly  known ;  and  the  same  condition  of  the  functions  of 
the  body  has  as  often  been  observed.  Hypocondriacism,  or  other  species 
of  mental  aberration,  are  noticed  in  one  class  of  patients,  and  functional 
derangement  in  another,  but  oftener  both  in  the  same  individual;  and 
hence,  too,  we  see  alcoholic  insanity  conspicuous  among  the  numerous  forma 
of  deranged  manifestations  of  mind  in  many  of  our  public  institutions,  ap- 
propraitedto  the  treatment  of  lunacy.  In  our  mixed  population,  (I  mean  of 
foreigners  and  natives,)  we  find  this  type  of  disease  more  abundant  than  in 
'any  other  of  the  disorders  which  are  classed  under  the  deiwmination  of  in 
sanity.  Gloomy  as  this  picture  may  seem,  it  has  this  cheering  feature,  that 
inasmuch  as  the  mania  of  intemperance  is  more  medicable  than  several 
etherforms  of  the  complaint,  we  may,  in  cases  of  this  origin,  promise  a  suc 
cess  in  our  means  of  cure,  when  capable  of  carrying  our  remedial  measures 
into  full  effect,  that  might  be  altogether  unwarrantable  in  some  cases  aria- 
ing  from  a  different  source." — Stetkt  chaptei  entitled  "  Lwtatic  Asylum,"  Vol.  I. 


177 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  hoax  concluded. 


N  Thus  ended  the  scene,  plotted  and  conducted  by  these  ingenious  gen 
tlemen  .;  but  not  thus  ended  the  consequences  which  resulted  from  it." 

Godwin. 

"Thus  we  play  the  fool  with  the  time,  and  the  spirits  of  the  wise  sit  in 
the  clouds  and  mock  us." 

"Whose  nature  is  so  far  from 'doing  harms, 
That  he  suspects  none." 

"  I  do  not  like  this  fooling." 

"  Go  to  your  bosom — 

Knock  there — and  ask  your  heart  what  it  doth  know 
That's  like  your  brother's  fault." — Shakspeare. 

WHEN  the  sportive,  unintentional  tormentors  of  Spiffard 
again  met,  (which  was  while  he  was  at  Cooke's  lodgings,)  they, 
after  receiving  Allen's  report,  again  debated  whether  the  affair 
was  to  be  dropped  or  continued  ;  and  if  continued,  how. 

The  credulity  of  their  victim  had  been  so  great,  that  Allen, 
who  was  flattered  by  the  success  of  his  own  skill,  (like  the 
sportsman  who  is  reconciled  to  the  torture  inflicted  on  the 
harmless  bird,  by  the  self-applause  which  the  proof  of  his  un 
erring  aim  produces,)  could  not  yet  give  up  what  appeared  to 
him  such  a  capital  joke.  He  therefore  proposed  "  getting  up" 
a  plausible  apology  for  the  failure  of  Captain  Smith. 

"  It  was  not  his  fault.  He  and  his  second  had  been  on  the 
ground,  and  left  it.  We  were  too  late  by  reason  of  our  watches 
being  half  an  hour  too  slow.  Thus  Spiffard  had  not  been  at 
the  appointed  place  in  time  ;  and,  in  consequence,  Captain 
Smith,  and  his  second,  Mr.  Beaglehole,  had  just  cause  to  be 
offended.  Therefore,  an  apology  or  explanation  must  take 
place,  and  if  they  require  another  meeting,  which  they  must 


178  TJie  hoax  concluded. 

do,  it  must  be  given.  In  the  mean  time,  Captain  Smith  must 
go  to  Baltimore,  and,  of  course,  the  meeting  be  deferred.  This 
will  give  time  to  keep  up  the  joke  capitally.  Spiff  must  be 
made  to  practise  with  the  pistol.  We  will  take  him  out — load 
both  my  hair-triggers — and  I  will  bet  two  to  one,  that  I  make 
him  believe  that  he  can  snuff  a  candle  at  twenty  paces." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  ever  fired  a  pistol  in  his  life,"  said 
Cooper.  "  He  can't  hit  a  barn-door  at  ten  paces." 

"  If  that  was  the  case  before  Captain  Smith's  birth,"  said 
Simpson,  "  now  that  you  have  wasted  Spiffard  to  a  skeleton, 
he  will  not  be  able  to  hit  a  barn." 

"  I'll  give  him  a  few  lessons  with  the  pistol,"  said  the  little 
colonel.  "  I  trained  Jack  Oglevy  of  Magra's  Pennsylvania 
Regiment,  so  perfectly,  that  in  three  weeks  practice,  I  had  the 
pleasure,  as  his  second,  to  see  him  wing  Bob  Tenterton,  of 
Sheldon's  Dragoons,  and  make  him  spin  like  a  humming-top." 

"  It  will  never  do,"  said  Cooper..    "Drop  it." 

"  And  they  fought  with  Tenterton's  horse-pistols  ;  no  hair- 
triggers  then — " 

"The  thing  has  gone  far  enough." 

But  Allen  persisted.  "  Only  let  him  try  at  a  mark,  the  size 
of  a  dollar,  and  I'll  convince  him  that  he  has  hit  it,  though  he 
shoots  ever  so  wide." 

"  By  dint  of  argument  profound." 

"  No.  I'll  stand  behind  him  and  fire  over  his  head.  My 
ball  will  pierce  the  centre  ;  and  it  will  be  no  difficult  matter — 
especially  if  we  all  say  so — to  persuade  him  that  my  shot-hole 
Was  made  by  his  bullet — the  result  of  his  steady  aim." 

"Allen,  you  must  have  a  very  high  opinion  of  your  persuasive 
powers." 

41  Why,  a  man  who  can  be  persuaded  that  the  blackguard  he 
bullied  in  the  Shakspeare  box,  was  a  gentleman,  may  be  per 
suaded  to  any  thing." 

"  By  those  in  whose  words  he  has  confidence,"  slily  remark 
ed  Simpson. 

"  Your  plan  is  impracticable.  He  will  see  into  the  trick, 
and  that  will  open  his  eyes  to  the  whole  affair.  Besides,  I 
don't  believe  Spiff  ever  intended  to  shoot,  or  be  shot." 

"  Surely,"  said  Allen,  "  he  would  not  have  gone  to  meet  the 
man,  otherwise." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  was  Cooper's  reply.  "Spiff  thinks  that 
truth  is  as  powerful  as  lead  ;  and  that  a  frank  explanation,  and 
cool  reasoning,  will  settle  any  difference." 

"  That  may  be  the  case  now,  but  it  was  not  so  with  us,"  said 


The  hoax  concluded.  179 

the  colonel.  "  When  Tom  Dickson,  of  the  first  Maryland 
.Regiment,  said  Jack  Tomlinson — " 

"  But,"  said  Allen,  "  suppose  his  adversary's  arguments 
should  be  blows." 

"  He  has  no  fears  of  personal  violence.  Though  he  never 
practised  pistol-shooting,  his  boxing  and  fencing,  as  I  know  by 
experience,  are  of  the  first  quality.  He  can  make  a  decided 
hit,  and  a  hard  one.  Ho  is  as  strong  and  active  as  a  Sadler's 
Well's  Hercules,  and  boxes,  cudgels,  and  fences,  like  an  '  ad 
mirable  Crichton.'  " 

"  Besides,"  said  Simpson,  "  it  is  quite  time  to  drop  it.  We 
have  gone  too  far  already.  If  ever  he  should  find  out  the 
tricks  we  have  been  playing  him,  we  may  have  a  serious  quar 
rel,  although  no  duel.  He  has  suffered  in  both  the  spirit  and 
the  flesh." 

"  Why  you  don't  think  his  lank  sides  and  hollow  cheeks  are 
caused  by  the  doughty  Captain  Smith  ?"  said  Allen. 

"  What  else  ?"  was  asked. 

"  For  some  time  past,"  said  the  manager,  "  I  have  had  my 
suspicions  that  there  is  a  more  formidable  as  well  as  a  real 
personage,  the  meeting  with  whom  at  home  has  thrown  him 
into  the  snares  prepared  for  him  abroad.  Poor  Spiff,  I  wish 
I  could  free  him  from  all  his  engagements  as  easily  as  from 
this  of  Captain  Smith." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  my  masters,"  said  Hilson,  "  Spiff  cer 
tainly  does  look  miserable,  and  we  ought  to  make  an  end  of 
the  hoax." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Allen,  "  but  don't  let  us  break  off  too 
abruptly.  He  will  expect  some  account  from  me  of  the  rea 
son  given  for  the  challenger's  non-appearance.  He  has  a 
right  to  expect  it.  I  have  promised  it.  Therefore  he  must 
have  the  explanation,  as  I  have  told  you — it  was  owing  to  the 
difference  of  the  watches  and  all  that — and  this  explanation  I 
am  supposed  to  receive  from  Beaglehole." 

"  You  forget  that  you  told  Spiff  that  Beaglehole's  watch  was 
set  to  yours." 

"True.     I  forgot  that." 

•*'  There's  an  old  proverb  on  that  subject." 

"  You  mean,  that  '  Liars  should  have  good  memories.'  If 
it  was  not  a  company  concern  I'd  challenge  you  for  that." 

"  For  what?     It  was  your  conscience  that  said  it — not  I." 

"  I  do  sometimes  think  that  we  have  gone  too  far  ;  but  we 
can't  stop  now.  I  must  excuse  the  watch  business  ;  then  I 


ISO  The  hoax  concluded. 

muet  not  receive  the  excuse  of  Smith's  second  ;  I  threaten  to 
post  Captain  Smith  ;  Captain  Smith  threatens  to  horsewhip 
Spiffard.  That  will  do  !  And,  then,  as  Captain  Smith  is  a  big 
bully  of  a  fellow,  Spiff  must  be  persuaded  to  buy  a  pair  of 
pocket-pistols  ;  and  I  will  parade  him  up  and  down  Broadway; 
and  every  now  and  then  I  can  see  Captain  Smith  waiting  at  a 
corner,  ready  to  put  his  threat  into  execution.'' 

Thus,  forgetting  his  late  qualms  of  conscience,  the  youth 
delighted  himself  with  anticipating  the  triumphant  conclusion 
of  his  long-protracted  boy's-play. 

Some  of  the  party  protested  against  any  further  prosecution 
of  the  boyish  sport ;  others  agreed  with  Allen  that  more  must 
be  done  to  prevent  suspicion;  and  he,  tracing  Spiffard  to 
Cooke's  lodgings,  entered  the  antichamber  in  time  to  interrupt 
the  colloquy  between  cur  hero  and  his  brother  yankee,  and  to 
prevent  some  further  notions  being  communicated  which  would 
have  defeated  the  intention  of  Allen's  visit. 

As  it  was,  some  thoughts  had  been  generated  by  Trustwor 
thy  in  the  mind  of  Spiffard  which  were  adverse  to  Allen's 
scheme  ;  but  anything  like  the  truth  could  not  be  imagined  by 
one  so  guileless. 

Allen  told  Spiffard  that  he  came  to  inform  him  of  the  re 
sult  of  his  interview  with  Beaglehole. 

Spiffard  made  no  reply,  but  looked  in  the  face  of  the  infor 
mant  as  though  he  would  read  more  than  was  spoken.  Still 
he  had  no  suspicion  of  deliberate  falsehood.  He  was  obliged 
to  view  the  faces  of  those  with  whom  he  conversed,  from  that 
point  which  portrait-painters  prefer.  He  looked  up  to  the 
face  of  Allen,  and  saw  nothing  but  manly  beauty.  He  saw 
nothing  dishonest  in  the  half-opened  lips,  disclosing  their  even 
and  white  indwellers  ;  or  in  the  quiet  grey  eyes,  surmounted 
by  lofty  arched  brows  that  never  had  been  bent  by  care.  All 
was  as  fair  as  the  herculean  youth's  complexion.  The  scru 
tinising  look  was  continued  from  absence  of  mind.  Spiffard 
was  thinking  of  something  else  after  the  first  glance. 

Allen  blushed. 

The  supposed  conversation  was  recited  nearly  as  we  have 
given  it  in  anticipation  ;  concluding  with  Captain  Smith's 
threat  of  personal  chastisement. 

"  I  do  not  fear  the  arm  of  any  man." 

"  He  is  a  stout  muscular  fellow,"  said  Allen. 

"You  have  seen  him,  then?" 

This  was  a  thrust  not  to  be  parried.  Another  of  those  false- 


Tlie  hoax  concluded.  181 

hoods  which  men  of  honour  can  tell  under  tne  paltry  shelter  of 
"  it's  a  joke,"  must  be  resorted  to.  One  lie  begets  another. 
A  falsehood  cannot  stand  alone.  To  hesitate  would  not  have 
comported  with  the  acknowledged  reputation  of  Allen  in  the 
art  of  quizzing,  and  he  boldly  answered,  "  I  saw  a  very  stout, 
athletic,  nautical-looking  man,  part  from  Beaglehole  as  I  ap 
proached  him." 

This  (although  pure  fiction)  was  spoken  with  such  an  un 
daunted  air  of  confidence,  and  so  much  in  the  manner  and 
tone  of  truth,  that  joined  to  the  probability  (all  the  preceding 
circumstances  being  believed  as  undoubted  facts)  that  Spif- 
fard's  incipient  wavering  doubts — if  he  had  any — were  dis 
persed. 

"  I  do  not  fear  the  arm  of  any  man,"  he  quietly  repeated. 

'*  But  to  receive  a  blow  !" 

"  I  can  arrest  a  blow." 

"  But  from  a  horse-whip  ?" 

"  I  trust  my  activity,  skill,  and  strength,  to  wrest  such  wea 
pon  from  the  hand  of  an  antagonist." 

"  But  the  scandal  of  such  a  contest  in  the  streets  ?" 

"  I  do  not  seek  it." 

"  If  you  carried  pistols,  you  might,  by  presenting  one  on  his 
approach,  prevent  an  altack  ;  and  if  assailed,  you  would  be  jus 
tified  in  shooting  him." 

"  /  think  not.  I  will  not  shed  blood.  I  have  never  intend 
ed  it." 

"  But  self-defence." 

"  I  can  defend  myself." 

"  The  probability  is,  that  by  merely  showing  a  pistol,  blood 
shed  will  be  prevented  ;  for  if  you  undergo  his  chastisement 
you  will  challenge  him  ;  I  shall  insist  on  that.  You  must 
have  satisfaction,  otherwise  you  cannot  look  your  friends  in 
the  face." 

"  I  shall  not  do  wrong  for  fear — even  of  my  friends.  You 
must  act  as  you  please." 

"  It  is  you  that  must  act.  These  fellows  must  not  boast 
that  you  have  kept  yourself  out  of  their  way  through  foar,  \ 
have  been  to  Bonfanti's  and  purchased  a  pair  of  little  bull 
dogs.  We  will  walk  Broadway  to  show  the  bullies  that  we 
are  not  to  be  frightened  into  hiding-places  by  blustering.  You 
had  better  take  the  pistols." 

"  No,  sir.  I  am  going  into  Broadway  as  soon  as  I  have 
seen  Mr.  Cooke." 

8* 


132  The  hoax  concluded. 

He  went  into  the  old  gentleman's  chamber,  and  Allen  fol 
lowed.  Spiffard,  having  determined  to  visit  Mr.  Littlejohn, 
made  his  stay  very  short  with  his  sick  friend  ;  and,  passing 
through  Wall-street,  he  took  his  way  up  Broadway,  accompa 
nied  by  Allen.  Mr.  Litllejohn's  residence  being  in  the  lower 
part  of  Courtlandt- street,  the  young  man  proceeded  thither. 
Some  of  the  conspirators  followed,  thinking  that  Allen  had  suc 
ceeded  in  hi>s  plan,  while  Spiffard  was  almost  unconscious  of 
his  presence.  Allen  at  times  thought  he  sa\v  in  the  counte 
nance  of  his  pupil,  thai  anxiety  he  wished  to  see ;  and  then, 
again,  was  puzzled  by  the  abstracted  air  of  the  unhappy  man, 
whose  friend  he  roally  was,  notwithstanding  this  worse  than 
boy's-play.  But  little  did  he  think  whence  arose  that  ab 
straction.  In  this  state  of  bewilderment,  they  passed  the 
house  of  Mr.  Littlejohn  unnoticed,  and  the  absent-man  was 
roused  by  the  voice  of  Allen,  hitherto  unattended  to  :  "There 
he  is !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

And  looking  up  he  perceived  the  ferry-boat  just  pushing  off 
for  Faulus  Hook. 

"  There  he  is  1"  cried  Allen  again. 

"  What  and  whom  do  you  mean  1" 

"  I  mean  Captain  Smith.  There  he  goes  !"  pointing  to 
the  ferry-boat.  "  That's  the  man.  There  he  goes,  the  cow 
ardly  braggart." 

Spiffard,  more  fully  aroused  from  his  reverv,  asked  quietly, 
"  Which  is  he  ?" 

"  That  fellow  in  the  watch-coat  with  an  enormous  horse 
whip  in  his  hand.  The  fellow  with  three  capes  to  his  over 
coat,  and  a  whip  which  he  had  not  courage  to  use.  Do  you 
see  him?" 

"  I  see  a  man  with  a  great-coat  and  horse-whip." 

"  That's  the  fellow  I  saw  with  Beaglehole.  His  second 
has  not  been  able  to  keep  him  up  to  the  mark.  Would  you 
have  known  him  ?" 

»  No." 

"  That's  the  man,  depend  upon  it." 

Spiffard  doubted  not  that  he  had  seen  Captain  Smith  ;  but 
he  thought  little  of  it,  and  turned  to  retrace  his  way  to  Mr. 
Littlejohn's.  He  was  somewhat  surprised  to  see  several  of  the 
usual  club  or  knot,  near  the  wharf.  Allen  joined  them,  point 
ing  to  the  boat,  and  he  heard  the  name  of  Captain  Smith  as  he 
passed.  He  heard  a  laugh — he  thought  of  Davenport.  It  was 


The  hoax  concluded.  183 

dismissed  in  a  moment.  He  left  his  friends  to  laugh  at 
his  credulity,  and  wearied  by  long  watching,  anxiety,  and 
forebodings  of  evil,  he  sought  and  found  a  counsellor  in  his 
friend  the  merchant ;  a  friend  whom  he  ought  to  have  con 
sulted  before  his  affairs  had  arrived  at  this  fearful  crisis. 


184 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


JL  promising  match  ;  and  an  old  acquaintance  very  unpromising* 

"Your  mind  shall  no  longer  suffer  by  your  person  ;  nor  shall  your  eyes, 
for  the  future,  dazzle  me  into  a  blindness  towards  your  understanding.'' 

IStcelc. 

"Restor'd  to  heaven  and  heaven's  ways, 
'Tis  rapture  that  all  woe  repays ! — Anon. 

"  But  this  lies  all  within  the  will  of  God." 

"  Thus  may  we  gather  honey  from  the  weed, 
And  make  a  moral  of  the  devil  himself." 

"  Compare  dead  happiness  with  living  wo. — Shakspeare. 

THE  Reverend  Mr.  John  Littlejohn,  when  he  returned  home 
from  his  accidental  (and  almost  midnight)  visit  to  Mrs.  Wil 
liams,  was  filled  with  thoughts  that  had  of  late  been  strangers 
to  him.  They  were  not  thoughts  inimical  to  the  holy  functions 
he  had  been  performing  ;  and,  indeed,  they  were  intimately 
connected  with  the  scene  at  the  bed-side  of  the  sufferer. 

He  found  his  father  anxiously  waiting  for  him,  having  sat 
up  beyond  his  usual  hour  of  retiring.  Although  he  had 
every  reason  to  suppose  that  his  son  was  restored  to  a  sane 
state  of  his  reasoning  faculties,  yet  the  father  could  not  forget 
the  past,  and  every  minute  that  the  son  overstaid  the  time  of  his 
expected  return,  caused  a  pang,  such  as  none  but  a  parent, 
who  had  suffered  from  such  a  cause,  can  conceive. 

Saint  Paul's  clock  struck  twelve.  The  old  man  closed  his 
book  and  crossed  his  spectacles  on  its  cover.  He  looked  at 
his  wratch,  although  he  knew  that  it  agreed  with  the  clock.  He 
got  up  and  traversed  the  room.  He  took  up  his  book  again, 
and  tried  to  read.  He  snuffed  the  candles  and  wiped  the 
glasses  of  his  spectacles  :  still  he  could  not  read.  He  listen 
ed  to  catch  the  sound  of  every  passing  footstep  on  the  pave 
ment.  He  heard  the  approach  of  steps — "it  is — no."  They 
pass.  Another,  and  another.  One  step — the  bell  rings — the 


A  promising  match,  <£c.  185 

impatient  father  flies  to  the  door.     It  is  his  son — such  as  he 
wished  to  see  him. 

It  is  somewhat  singular,  but  as  true  as  the  generality  of  this 
history,  that  all  the  principal  personages  concerned  in  it  were 
sleepless  on  this  night :  some  the  whole  night,  others  much 
beyond  the  usual  time  of  sinking  to  rest.  We  have  seen  Spif- 
fard  and  his  merry  companions  ;  his  unfortunate  wife,  his  mo 
ther,  and  Miss  Portland  ;  Mrs.  Williams  and  Miss  Atherton  ; 
all  awake  :  Cooke  and  his  faithful  Yankee  may  have  rested  or 
not ;  Williams  was  at  Philedelphia,  seeking  pleasures  adapted 
to  his  character  ;  Mrs.  Johnson,  improving  in  health,  slept 
soundly ;  and  Henry,  no  longer  a  watchman,  enjoyed  the  re 
pose,  not  of  the  monarch  on  his  couch  of  down,  but  of  the 
ship-boy  rocking  on  "  the  high  and  giddy  mast."  But  return 
we  to  Courtlandt-street  and  the  Littlejohns. 

"  I  was  in  hopes,  sir,  that  you  were  in  bed  and  asleep.  I 
fear,  from  appearances,  that  you  have  been  made  uneasy  by 
my  protracted  absence  at  this  time  of  night." 

"  I  ought  not,  perhaps,  to  have  felt  any  uneasiness,  but  your 
late  indisposition — " 

11  I  believe,  sir,  that  you  need  never  be  anxious  in  that  res 
pect  again.  And  yet  we  cannot  soon  forget  the  past." 

The  father  was  silent.  He  pressed  the  hand  of  his  son  and 
tears  filled  his  eyes  ;  but  he  remained  silent. 

They  entered  the  parlour,  and  the  son  proceeded. 

"  When  I  look  back  to  the  past  it  is  like  a  horrid  dream. 
But  that  which  preceded  the  dream  can  never  occur  again.  It 
appears  to  me  that  I  have  attained  to  a  clear  view  of  my  duty 
to  my  Creator  and  his  creatures,  since  the  aberration  of  my  in 
tellect.  And  a  clear  view  of  man's  duty  presents  a  clea*-  view 
of  his  interest.  But  I  have  seen  one,  even  this  night,  within 
this  hour,  who,  if  her  conduct  is  uniformly  such  as  I  have  wit 
nessed,  would  insure  peace  and  sanity  to  all  who  came  within 
the  sphere  her  brightness  illumines.  A  steady  continuance  in 
the  right  path  to  any  one  who  could  be  fortunate  enough  to 
have  her  for  a  companion."  Thus  frank  was  the  accustomed 
intercourse  between  this  son  and  father.  There  was,  how 
ever,  an  evident  excitement  in  the  young  clergyman  which 
might  have  alarmed  the  old  gentleman  ;  but  the  son  went  on 
to  detail  the  incidents  of  the  evening  with  so  much  collected- 
ness,  that,  although  he  dwelt  rather  minutely  on  all  that  con 
cerned  one  person,  his  father  had  no  fears  for  his  intellects. 
The  young  rnan  inquired,  rather  earnestly,  what  he  knew  res- 


186  Jl  promising  match, 

pecting  the  sister  of  Mrs.  Williams.  His  father  had  never 
heard  of  the  existence  of  such  a  person. 

After  a  pause,  the  young  priest  said,  "  she  is  a  very  fine  wo 
man.  A  very  extraordinary  woman." 

"  Mrs.  Williams,"  said  the  father,  "  is  said  to  have  been  a 
beauty  ;  and  her  sister  may  be  such  now,  if  younger  and — " 

"  She  is  not  like  her  sister.  Never  could  Mrs.  Williams 
have  been  like  her!  she  is  all  mind,  soul,  purity,  piety  ?" 

"  And  beautiful?" 

"  0  no.  Not  according  to  the  world's  view  of  beauty  :  ex 
cepting  the  beauty  of  gracefulness  and  form.  She  has  neither 
what  I  once  thought  youth,  nor  beauty.  Her  face  is  marked 
by  the  scars  left  on  it  by  that  disease  which  modern  science 
has  banished  from  the  civilized  world  :  yet  her  countenance  is 
lovely,  because  animated  by  benevolence — her  eyes  beam  with 
intelligence — and  her  lips,  although  colourless,  are  in  form 
and  expression  perfect." 

"  Why,  Thomas,  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  staid  so  long," 
said  the  old  man  smiling. 

"  I  only  staid  for  prayer,  and  to  read  to  the  unhappy  Mrs. 
Williams,  and  for  a  few  moments  conversation  with  Miss 
Atherton." 

"  Atherton?  True,  I  have  heard  that  was  the  name  of  the 
family.  Good  night.  I  suppose  we  shall  hear  more  of  this 
wonder." 

Next  day  the  young  clergyman  left  his  father's  door  to  visit 
Mrs.  Williams,  as  he  had  promised,  at  the  request  of  Miss 
Atherton,  the  previous  night ;  the  night  of  sleeplessness.  Tho 
thought  of  seeing  again  that  scarred  and  seamed  face  did  not 
deter  him.  But  he  was  always  a  "  man  of  his  word." 

As  he  descended  the  steps  he  met  SpirTard,  and  recognising 
him  as  the  person  he  had  seen  with  his  father  in  the  lunatic 
asylum,  he  bowed  to  him  and  passed  on. 

Spiffard  looked  at  him  as  at  a  stranger.  He  did  not  think 
of  the  unhappy  man  he  had  visited  on  that  occasion.  The 
graceful  figure  and  intelligent  countenance  of  the  person  who 
saluted  him,  could  not  be  reconciled  to  the  remembrance  of 
the  sick,  and  haggard,  and  wild  appearance,  of  that  son  he 
had  seen  ;  and  he  could  not  forbear,  almost  as  soon  as  he  was 
admitted  to  the  merchant's  presence,  saying,  "  have  you  more 
than  one  son,  sir?" 

4<  No — not  now.  You  must  have  met  my  son  as  you  came 
in ;  but  so  happily  changed  that  you  did  not  recognise  him. 


and  an  old  acquaintance  very  unpromising.          187 

Heaven  has  restored  him  to  me,  only  made  more  dear  to  me 
by  the  trials  he  has  passed  and  the  sufferings  we  have  both  en 
dured.  I  had  another  son,  older  than  Thomas.  He  was  even 
brighter  in  intellect  and  richer  in  every  endowment  of  nature 
than  this  :  he  was  pure,  stainless,  body  and  soul ;  brilliant  and 
quick  of  apprehension,  rich  in  knowledge,  which  flowed  upon 
him  as  if  by  the  attraction  of  love  to  its  lover.  But  his  ever 
active  mind  exhausted  his  perfect  frame,  and  he  fell  dead  at 
my  feet,  with  the  pen  in  his  hand,  and  an  unfinished  essay  on 
death  spread  open  on  his  desk." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  recalled  the  memory  of  past  sorrow, 
sir." 

"  O,  we  see  the  evils  of  the  past  as  through  a  veil.  The 
hard  lines  and  sharp  angles  are  lost.  Their  connection 
with  our  present  existence  is  felt  in  mitigated  sorrow,  and 
sometimes  as  adding  beauty  to  our  hopes  of  the  future, 
shedding  sun-light  through  the  mist  on  the  distant  prospect. 
Happily  for  man,  the  brighter  passages  of  former  days  come 
out  to  his  retrospection  with  additional  brilliancy  ;  and  he  pos 
sesses  the  power  to  linger  on  the  review  of  them.  The  griefs 
we  have  sustained  lose  their  poignancy  ;  resignation  to  the  will 
of  God,  founded  upon  the  contemplation  of  his  attributes  and 
his  works  ;  upon  the  events  we  have  seen  and  see  ;  and  upon 
the  knowledge  communicated  to  us  by  his  word  ;  takes  the 
sting  from  every  evil,  and  from  death  itself.  I  thought  when 
you  accompanied  me  to  the  asylum  of  the  deranged,  and  heard 
my  remaining  son  utter  the  ravings  of  insanity,  that  the  afflic 
tion  was  beyond  bearing  :  yet  that  aberration  of  intellect  now 
appears  to  me,  at  times,  as  a  surety  for  a  healthful  state  of 
mind  and  body  for  a  long  futurity.  Certain  it  is  he  is  made 
dearer  to  me,  and  I  believe  better,  by  his  sufferings.  0,  how 
beautiful  is  the  parable  of  the  lost  son  restored  !" 

Thia  conversation  restored  the  hopes  of  SpirTard.  He 
opened  to  the  merchant  the  recesses  of  his  sorrows.  He  con 
fessed  the  headlong  rashness  which  had  precipitated  him  into 
an  engagement  for  life  with  one  whose  former  life  and  private 
habits  he  had  not  made  himself  acquainted  with.  He  confided 
to  this  man,  whose  benevolence  ho  had  witnessed,  and  whose 
wisdom  he  heard,  the  whole  of  his  matrimonial  sorrows,  and 
exposed  their  cause.  He  expatiated  upon  the  miseries  he  had 
witnessed  in  youth,  as  inflicted  upon  his  father  and  his  house 
hold.  He  blamed  his  own  blind  credulity  in  taking  a  woman 
to  wife,  however  admirable,  merely  on  the  knowledge  of  her 
obvious  talents,  and  apparent  strength  of  intellect.  He  attri- 


18S  «#  promising  match, 

bnted  his  reliance  upon  his  wife's  being  above  the  reach  of 
temptation,  to  that  confidence  he  placed  in  the  powers  of  her 
mind. 

Mr.  Littlejohn  encouraged  him  to  hope.  Advised  him  to 
repress  his  feelings  in  his  wife's  presence,  and  remember  that 
he  had  had  too  great  confidence  in  himself.  He  conjured 
him  to  return  home  ;  treat  the  erring  one  with  kindness  rather 
than  passion  or  sternness.  Examine  himself,  whether  he  had 
not,  by  negligence  or  waiat  of  confidence,  irritated  a  quick  and 
feeling  temper.  His  conscience  said,  "  guilty;"  but,  "  could 
I  help  it  ?"  whispered  something,  perhaps  self-love. 

After  a  long  conversation,  in  which  Mr.  Littlejohn  played 
the  friendly  monitor,  our  hero  resolved  to  return  home,  pour 
the  balm  of  reconciliation  and  forgiveness  into  the  wounded 
spirit,  (for  such  he  knew  it  must  be)  of  the  faulty  creature  he 
had  left  with  harshness,  and  he  went  his  way  encouraged  to 
hope  that  he  yet  might  find  a  wife  and  a  home. 

As  Spiffard  was  about  to  depart,  the  merchant,  remembering 
the  behaviour  of  the  young  comedian  at  Doctor  Cadwalla- 
der's,  on  seeing  Mrs.  Williams,  and  now  interested  in  what 
respected  her,  from  his  son's  eulogiums  on  her  sister,  asked 
him  if  he  had  learned  any  thing  more  of  Mrs.  Williams  since 
that  evening. 

44  Yes,  sir,  she  is  my  aunt,  the  sister  of  my  mother." 
44  Your  aunt?    And  the  lady,  now  attending  upon  her — is 
her  sister." 

"Her  younger  sister,  sir,  and  consequently  likewise  my  aunt ; 
but  no  more  like  her  elder  sister  than  the  morning  star  to 
Erebus.  The  likeness  of  Mrs.  Williams  to  my  mother,  both 
in  person  and  in  the  badges  of  weakness  which  were  so  apparent 
when  I  first  saw  her,  occasioned  feelings  and  conduct  that 
must  have  appeared  very  extraordinary.  This  lady  is  an 
angel.  She  has,  (her  parents  being  dead)  come  to  this  country 
from  motives  of  love  and  benevolence  :  and  when  her  sister 
shall  have  departed  this  life,  she  will  be  without  friends  or  fa 
mily  connexions,  except  in  me." 

Mr.  Littlejohn  did  not  pursue  the  subject  further,  and  his 
young  friend  departed. 

As  Spiffard  passed  rapidly  through  Broadway  on  his  return 
home,  (or  what  he  hoped  once  more  to  make  a  home,)  he  was 
much  excited.  He  walked  fast.  All  the  apparent  listlessness 
of  the  first  part  of  the  morning  was  gone.  He  no  longer  felt 
the  lassitude  resulting  from  a  sleepless  ni<jht,  and  many  hours 
of  extreme  anxiety.  All  thoughts  was  determined  to  one  ob- 


and  an  old  acquaintance  very  unpromising.  189 

ject.  He  heeded  nothing ;  he  saw  nothing  in  the  great  tho 
roughfare  ;  the  main  artery  of  the  great  commercial  metropolis. 
Many  passed  him  who  knew  him.  but  saw  him  not.  Intent  on 
their  own  purposes,  hurrying  from  their  dwelling  places  to 
South-street,  Water-street,  Pearl-street  or  Wall-street,  to  the 
store-house,  counting-house,  bank  or  exchange.  Others,  to 
whom  he  was  known  as  the  favourite  comedian  of  the  day, 
laughed  as  they  looked  at  his  care-worn  face,  and  thought  it 
very  comical ;  while  some,  pointing  to  the  man  whose  talents 
had  delighted  them,  while  he  gave  life  to  the  clowns  of  the 
poet,  which  are  to  live  when  he  is  forgotten,  said,  "  that's 
Spiffard  !  how  pale  he  looks." 

He  heard  not,  he  saw  not,  when  suddenly,  "  Ho  !  Spiffard!" 
was  shouted  in  his  ears,  so  loud  and  discordantly,  that  he  could 
not  but  look  up  to  see  whence  the  salutation  came. 

He  saw,  a  few  paces  from  him,  crossing  the  street,  and  ad 
vancing  to  place  himself  in  his  path- way,  a  man  much  taller 
than  himself,  with  his  eyes  glaring  on  him,  and  his  face  glow 
ing  through  a  mask  of  dirt.  His  mouth  was  distended  by  a 
smile  as  he  shouted  the  name  of  "  Spiffard,"  but  the  smile 
contradicted  the  expression  of  the  eyes,  which  was  wild  and 
ghastly.  He  lifted  aloft  and  swung  round  his  head  a  piece  of 
hickory,  plucked  from  a  load  of  fire-wood  recently  thrown  on 
the  pavement ;  which  enormous  club  he  wielded  with  the 
strength  of  a  giant.  He  stood  directly  in  front  of  Spiffard, 
obliging  him  to  stop.  With  arm  uplifted,  and  rags  fluttering  in 
a  north-west  wind,  he  repeated,  "  ho !  Spiffard  !"  and  added, 
"  stand  at  my  command !" 

The  young  man  looked  mildly  but  firmly  in  his  eye,  nd 
said  quietly,  "  how  is  it  with  you,  Knox  ?  I  am  sorry  to  see 
you  thus — so  thinly  clad  in  this  biting  wind." 

The  poor  wretch,  who  thus  barred  his  passage,  and  accosted 
him,  had  been  last  seen  by  him  in  the  lunatic  asylum,  as  has 
been  noticed.  He  had  escaped,  and  found  means  to  exchange 
the  decent  apparel  which  had  been  supplied  by  the  liberality 
of  George  Frederick  Cooke,  (and  which,  of  course,  he  wore 
at  the  time  of  his  escape)  for  the  motley  tatters  in  which  he 
now  appeared.  The  exchange  was  effected  at  the  "  Five- 
points,"  and  he  imagined  his  present  dress  a  disguise.  Those 
who  had  robbed  him,  administered  the  poison  that  wrought 
him  to  the  lamentable  frenzy  in  which  he  now  presented 
himself. 

His  miscellaneous  apparel  was  composed  of  all  manner  of 
decompositions.  Part  of  a  check  handkerchief  round  his  close- 


190  Jl  promising  match, 

shaved  head,  and  straws  fantastically  entwined  with  it.  The 
debris  of  a  surtout  coat,  formed  a  waistcoat  for  him,  covering 
one  thigh  to  the  knee.  The  remnant  of  what  is  commonly 
called  a  plaid  cloak,  was  thrown  over  his  shoulders,  like  a  Ro 
man  toga,  or  a  Mohawk's  blanket.  Coat  he  had  none.  A 
pair  of  tattered  nankeen  pantaloons,  hung  a  little  below  the 
knee  on  one  leg,  and  to  the  ankle  of  the  other ;  otherwise, 
his  unhosed  legs  and  feet  were  seen  through  the  rents  of  an 
off-cast  pair  of  short  boots.  His  toes  were  at  perfect  liberty. 

Soothed  by  the  calm  and  familiar  manner  in  which  his  bois 
terous  address  was  met,  he  dropped  his  ponderous  stafl^  and 
said  :  "  Is  it  not  an  excellent  dress  for  Edgar  1  '  Poor  Tom's 
a  cold.  Tom  will  throw  his  head  at  them.'  Would  you  believe 
It,  Mr.  Spiffard,  the  manager  refused  me  an  engagement ;  four 
nights — as  a  star.  I  only  asked  a  clear  benefit.  Spiff!  I  want 
money  !  I  must  be  obeyed  !  I  want  brandy  !" 

This  man  had  been  well  educated  :  had  prided  himself  on 
being  a  gentleman.  Showed  scars  obtained  as  a  duellist  in 
his  own  country.  Talked  of  the  infamous  climate  of  "  this 
country."  Came  from  home  as  one  of  the  theatrical  corps  for 
the  New-York  Theatre,  and  had  been  discharged  for  excessive 
intemperance.  He  had  been  known  to  drink  two  quarts  of 
unmixed  brandy  to  prepare  himself  for  acting.  Cooke  lec 
tured  him,  and  pointed  out  the  evil  and  its  consequences,  and 
after  his  discharge,  supported  him.  But  what  was  given  for 
food  or  raiment,  was  bartered  for  poison  ;  madness  followed, 
tmd  he  was  consigned  to  the  hospital.* 


*  This  wretched  victim  of  intemperance  resided  at  one  period  in  a  garret 
room  in  Courtlandt-street,  before  his  final  discharge  from  the  theatre;  and 
has  been  known  to  go  to  the  business  of  the  stage,  after  a  preparation  of 
the  kind  above  mentioned.  He  would  find  his  way  to  his  garret — drink 
again  that  he  might  sleep — what  a  sleep  1  and  then  in  a  species  of  raving 
somnambulism,  escape  by  means  of  the  garret-window,  and  ramble  the 
streets,  until  exhausted  nature  deposited  her  loathsome  burthen  in  some 
cellar,  or  some  bulkhead.  He  died  of  apoplexy.  In  connexion  with  this 
•case,  I  subjoin  an  extract  from  Doctor  Francis's  letter,  before  mentioned. 

"  As  medical  witness  in  our  courts  of  criminal  judicature,  I  have  often 
been  summoned  to  give  testimony  in  cases  of  death  occasioned  by  intem 
perance,  or  by  other  causes  which  have  eventuated  fatally :  and  for  the  bet 
ter  discharge  of  this  duty,  have,  within  the  period  of  the  last  twelve  or  four 
teen  years,  examined  many  bodies  deceased  by  accident,  or  dther  causes, 
operating  suddenly.  The  details,  therefore,  which  I  now  communicate, 
are  derived  almost  entirely  from  autopsic  examinations  thus  made. 

"The  body  of  the  dead  inebriate,  often  exhibits  in  its  external  parts,  a 
physiognomy  quite  peculiar,  and  as  distinctive  as  that  which  presents  itself 
when  life  has  been  terminated  by  an  over  dose  of  laudanum.  Sometimes 


and  an  old  acquaintance  very  unpromising  191 

Spiffard  endeavoured  to  soothe  him,  and  persuade  him  to 
return  to  the  asylum.  He  offered  to  call  a  coach  for  him ; 
and,  as  he  appeared  for  a  moment  to  listen,  represented  the 
comfortable  state  in  which  he  had  seen  him  in  the  hospital. 
Suddenly  he  broke  out : 

"  Return  !  Return  to  the  house  of  bondage  !  Ha  !  ha  !  I'm 
free  !  No  chains  !  No  wife  !  You  are  married  !  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
Huzza  for  liberty  and  brandy  !  Go  to  your  wife  !  To  your 
wife!  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

Shouting  with  violent  gesticulations,  he  brandished  his  club  ; 
and  the  poor  creature  rushed  past,  crying — "  Go  to  your  wife  ! 
Your  wife  !  To  a  nunnery  go  !  To  a  nunnery  go  I" 


the  surface,  more  especially  at  its  superior  parts,  as  about  the  head,  neck, 
or  face,  betrays  a  surcharged  fullness  of  the  vascular  system  ;  and  the  cuta 
neous  investure  of  these  parts,  and  of  the  extremities,  is  characterized  by  the 
results  of  an  increased  action  of  the  exhalents,  by  blotches,  &c. :  and  this 
state,  the  consequence  of  previous  over  action  "has  so  impaired  the  vital 
energies  of  the  surface,  that  effusions  of  a  serous  or  sanguineous  quality 
are  to  be  observed.  I  remember  a  most  striking  instance  of  this  last  cir 
cumstance,  occurring  about  eighteen  months  ago.  The  individual,  a  mid 
dle  aged  adult  subject,  had  long  indulged  freely  in  the  use  of  distilled  spirits. 
He  died  of  universal  dropsy.  Some  few  days  previous  to  his  death,  hemor- 
hagic  discharges  from  the  surface  of  the  inferior  extremities,  were  noticed  hi 
several  places,  and  they  continued  until  the  close  of  his  life.  Nor  would 
creosote,  or  pyroligneous  acid,  or  any  other  means,  modify  in  the  least  tha 
sanguineous  discharge.  I  have  also  known  old  cicatrized  wounds  to  bleed 
anew  in  such  subjects  previous  to  their  decease  ;  and  blistered  surfaces  to 
become  extremely  annoying. 

"  The  brain  of  the  intemperate  is  the  rallying  point  of  much  disorganizing 
action;  but  to  notice  the  morbid  changes  minutely,  would  be  too  technical 
for  your  purpose.  Dissections  have  shown  preternatural  fulness  of  a  venous 
character.  The  membranes  of  the  brain  over  distended  with  blood.  Effu 
sions  of  serum,  to  a  great  extent,  between  the  substance  of  the  brain  and 
its  immediate  coverings ;  and  in  the  lateral  ventricals  large  quantities  of 
serum.  Dr.  Cooke,  of  London,  in  his  work  on  nervous  diseases,  has  re 
corded  the  case  of  a  man  who  was  brought  dead  into  the  Wesminster  Hos 
pital,  who  had  just  drank  a  quart  of  gin  fora  wager.  The  evidences  of 
death  being  quite  conclusive,  he  was  immediately  examined ;  and  within  the 
lateral  ventricles  of  the  brain  was  found  a  considerable  quantity  of  a  limpid 
fluid,  distinctly  impregnated  with  gin.  both  to  the  sense  of  smell  and  taste, 
and  even  to  the  test  of  inflammability.  Dr.  Kirk  of  Scotland,  has  demon 
strated  a  like  truth,  by  the  dissection  of  the  dead  body  of  an  inebriate.  The 
fluid  from  the  lateral  ventricles  of  the  biain,  exhaled  the  smell  of  whiskey; 
and  when  he  applied  a  candle  to  it,  in  a  spoon,  it  burnt  with  a  '  lambeiH 
blue  flame.' 

"  I  have  repeatedly  had  cases  of  a  similar  character  within  my  inspection. 
IJpon  removing  the  bony  covering  of  the  brain,  the  exhalation  of  ardent  spi 
rits,  on  several  occasions,  has  been  strongly  manifested  to  the  olfactories  of 
the  by-standers;  and  the  effused  fluid  conspicuous  for  its  quantity  and 
quality.  On  one  occasion,  some  spectators  who  were  entering  the  room 
while  the  anatomical  examination  was  going  on,  asked  what  puncheon  of 
rum  we  had  opened." 


192  JH  promising  match. 

Even  these  words  from  a  maniac — but  in  madness  self- 
inflicted — sounded  portentous  to  the  ear  of  the  husband,  and 
recalled  the  scene  of  the  past  night.  His  new  raised  hopes 
sunk,  and  he  continued  his  walk  with  a  sickened  and  despair 
ing  spirit. 

On  entering  the  house,  his  hopes  could  not  but  revive  upon 
seeing  Emma  Portland,  with  her  book  in  her  hand,  sitting  by 
a  cheerful  fire  ;  and  the  "breakfast-table  ready  for  the  family, 
as  usual.  He  was  welcomed  with  smiles,  which  showed  that 
she  was  unconscious  of  aught  amiss. 

She  supposed  that  Mr.  SpifTard  had  gone  to  take  a  morning 
walk.  Mrs.  Epsom,  she  knew,  had  gone  to  market.  Mrs. 
Spiffard,  as  is  usual  with  most  players,  passed  the  morning, 
until  late,  in  bed. 

To  look  on  innocence  and  bear.ty,  is  quieting  to  man's  spi 
rit  ;  and  innocence  and  beauty  were  united  in  no  common 
degree,  with  taste  and  intelligence,  in  Emma  Portland. 


193 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


T7te  denouement  of  a  tragedy. 


"  Sorrow  ends  not  when  it  seemeth  done." 

" theise  external  manners  of  lament, 

Are  merely  shadows  to  the  unseen  grief 
Which  fills  the  souL"—Shakspeare. 

"  Mercy  is  seasonable  in  the  time  of  affliction,  as  clouds  of  ram  in  ths  Ua»« 
•of  drought." — Ecclesiaslicus 

"Against  self- slaughter 
There  is  a  prohibition  so  divine, 
That  cravens  my  weak  hand." — Shakspiart. 

" -—  So  lovely  fair, 

That  what  seemed  fair  in  all  the  world,  eeemed  now 
Mean,  or  in  her  summed  up,  in  her  contained, 
And  in  her  looks." — Milton. 


THERE  is  a  charm  in  simplicity  of  dress,  a  conviction  of 
which  ought  to  be  deeply  impressed  on  the  mind  of  every  fe 
male^  It  is  confessed  by  all,  that  when  they  look  at  a  beauti 
ful  Madonna,  by  Raphael,  where  the  silken  hair,  parted  on  the 
forehead,  falls  in  natural  ringlets  on  either  side  the  face,  adorn 
ing  that  which  it  shades.  Yet,  what  fantastic  forms  have  been 
adopted  by  females  between  the  time  of  Raphael,  and  that  of 
Emma  Portland,  who  sat  now  before  the  hero  of  our  story, 
as  she  might  have  sat  before  Raphael  or  Guido,  for  a  saint  or  a 
muse. 

But  even  the  presence  of  beauty,  taste,  purity,  and  virtue, 
could  not  long  quiet  the  troubled  spirit  of  Spiffard.  The  ap 
pearance  of  his  wife,  as  he  last  saw  her,  was  as  vividly  present 
to  him,  although  but  in  his  "  mind's  eye,"  as  that  of  Emma 
Portland,  and  attracted  more  of  his  attention.  He  sat  down. 
The  circumstances  under  which  he  had  parted  from  Mrs. 


194  The  denouement  of  a  tragedy. 

Spiffard ;  her  figure  so  deplorably  degraded  ;  the  words  he 
had  uttered  as  he  left  her  ;  all  recurred.  He  became  fearful 
of  he  knew  not  what.  His  suspense  became  intolerable,  and  he 
jstarted  up  to  proceed  to  his  wife's  chamber  ;  but  he  had  only 
reached  the  door,  and  placed  his  hand  on  the  lock,  before  he 
stopped.  He  returned. 

*'  Perhaps  your  cousin  is  asleep  t" 

"  I  have  not  heard  her  stirring." 

14  You  can  steal  softly  into  the  room  ;  my  heavy  tread  might 
awake  her." 

Thus  his  fears  would  thrust  another  before  him.  It  would 
be  well  if  she  should  be  awake,  for  another  to  tell  her  that  he 
had  returned — had  inquired  for  her — intended  to  see  her — 
notwithstanding  the  word,  "  never." 

With  cheerful  alacrity  Emma  proceeded  on  her  errand,  and 
with  noiseless  foot-fall.  Spiffard  sunk  down  on  a  chair,  scarce 
breathing,  and  endeavoured  to  catch  the  sound  of  her  steps. 
He  heard  her  descending,  and  she  entered  the  room. 

"  The  door  is  locked,  and  I  don't  hear  any  movement 
within." 

•*  Go  up  again,  my  dear  ;  it  is  late;  knock  at  the  door." 

She  went.  He  opened  (and  stood  listening  by)  the  parlour 
door.  He  heard  her  knock  at  the  chamber  door.  Breath 
lessly  he  strove  to  catch  a  reply.  He  heard  none.  The 
knocking  was  repeated  ;  this  time  louder :  and  he  heard  Ernma 
call,  "Cousin!  cousin!  cousin  Spiffard !"  But  there  was  no 
answer.  Again  the  knocking  was  repeated,  and  the  call  upon 
his  wife  ;  but  no  answer.  He  trembled,  and  again  sank  on  a 
chair.  He  heard  the  descending  footsteps  of  Emma,  who  en 
tered,  and  having  no  cause  to  dread  any  sinister  event,  calmly 
said,  "  My  cousin  sleeps  uncommonly  sound,  as  well  as  late, 
this  morning." 

These  words  sounded  like  a  knell  on  the  ear  of  the  husband. 
He  unconsciously  echoed,  '*  sleep — sound,"  and  then  hastily 
inquired,  "  does  your  cousin  usually  lock  her  chamber  door, 
after  I  have  gone  out." 

"  No,  never.  I  never  knew  her  to  do  it  before.  I  have 
been  accustomed  to  enter  and  call  her  to  breakfast, — you 
know  I  am  a  restless  one." 

Spiffard  conquered  his  prostration  of  muscular  power  and 
sprung  suddenly  from  his  chair.  Almost  before  Emma  ceased 
speaking  he  was  rushing  up  stairs,  and  ouly  paused  when  he 
had  reached  the  chamber-door.  It  was  a  dreadful  pause.  He 


The  denouement  of  a  tragedy.  195 

listened,  though  without  hope.  All  was  silent,  and  to  his  ap 
prehension  it  was  the  silence  of  death.  He  knocked,  and 
called,  but  received  no  answer. 

"  Mrs.  Spiffard  ! — Mary  !— My  dear! — My  dear  Mary ! — 
If  you  hear,  answer  !  Forgive  the  words  I  made  use  of  when 
I  left  you." 

His  impatience  had  arrived  at  that  height,  that  it  was  dis 
traction.  He  knocked  louder.  He  attempted  to  force  the 
the  lock. 

Emma  stood  trembling  in  the  room  below. 

At  this  crisis  Mrs.  Epsom  entered  the  street-door,  having 
returned  with  her  servant  woman  from  market.  Spiffard  did 
not  heed,  did  not  hear,  the  entrance  of  his  wife's  mother,  and 
the  lock  resisting  his  efforts,  he  called  still  louder  for  ad 
mittance. 

Mrs.  Epsom,  hearing  this  clamour,  demanded  from  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  to  know  what  was  the  matter;  and  Emma,  en 
couraged  by  her  arrival,  rushed  out  of  the  parlour.  Her  ap 
pearance  was  so  dissimilar  to  that  which  characterized  her, 
that  Mrs.  Epsom's  alarm  was  increased,  and  she  began  to  as 
cend  the  stairs  ;  but  suddenly  stopt,  and  descended,  on  hearing 
the  crash  made  by  bursting  open  the  chamber  door.  Knowing 
the  violent  temper  and  habitually  ungovcrned  passions  of  her 
daughter,  her  vulgar  imagination  (and  perhaps  her  vulgar  ex 
perience)  suggested  as  the  cause  of  the  noise  she  heard,  some 
difference  between  husband  and  wife  ;  and  her  dread  of  her 
daughter's  resentment,  caused  her  to  retrace  her  steps,  and  to 
carry  Emma  back,  with  her,  into  the  parlour,  where,  after 
shutting  the  door,  she  began  to  question  her. 

The  apprehensions  of  Spiffard,  which  had  a  few  minutes 
before  deprived  him  of  strength,  now  gave  him  a  tenfold  por 
tion  ;  and  by  the  exertion  of  his  powerful  muscles,  urged  by 
fears  that  drove  him  to  madness,  he  burst  off  the  lock,  and, 
rushing  to  the  bed,  beheld  the  lifeless  corpse  of  his  wife. 

The  disheveled  hair  and  disordered  dress  of  their  last  inter 
view  had  disappeared.  It  was  evident  that  deliberate  prepa 
ration  had  been  made  for  the  death-scene  ;  and  the  corpse,  but 
that  it  was  habited  in  the  dress  of  the  day  and  not  in  night- 
clothes,  and  disposed  on  the  surface  of  the  bed,  instead  of 
being  covered,  as  the  season  required,  for  warmth,  might  have 
been  mistaken  for  a  sleeper,  at  the  first  glance,  by  a  stran 
ger.  But  the  husband  saw  it  was  death,  and  doubted  not. 
His  agony  was  extreme,  but,  after  the  first  moment,  his  thought 


196  TJis  denouement  of  a  tragedy. 

was  to  prevent  knowledge  of  the  cause.  He  listened.  No 
one  was  approaching.  He  saw  a  paper  near  the  bed  and  a 
phial.  He  eagerly  seized  upon  these  witnesses  of  suicide  and 
secreted  them  upon  his  person.  This  barely  accomplished,  he 
heard  the  footsteps  and  voices  of  the  females  on  the  stairs. 
Before  he  could  decide  whether  to  prevent  their  approach, 
Mrs.  Epsom  and  Emma  entered  the  chamber. 

The  scene  that  followed  is  not  for  my  purpose  to  describe, 
if  I  could. 


When  Spiffard  had  an  opportunity  he  read  the  contents  of 
the  paper  he  had  secreted. 

"  Let  whoever  finds  this  convey  it,  unread,  if  they  value  the 
injunctions  of  the  dead,  to  Mr.  Spiffard  or  Miss  Portland. 

"  I  have  been  most  unfortunate — more  erring.  I  was  never 
taught  my  duty  by  my  parents — parents  ?  I  had  none.  I  was 
never  governed  by  them,  and  I  only  governed  myself  but  to 
accomplish  some  object  I  desired.  From  childhood  I  was  in 
dulged,  and  saw  around  me  scenes  of  passion  and  appetite  in 
dulged — scenes  of  licentiousness  applauded. 

"  Emma,  the  world  I  have  lived  in  has  been  veiled  from  your 
eyes :  1  will  not  withdraw  the  veil.  You  can  pity,  and  even 
love,  the  poor  misled  Maria. 

"  I  have  determined  no  longer  to  live  enduring  torments  in 
flicted  by  conscience,  and  misled  by  habits  which  I  have 
hitherto  endeavoured  in  vain  to  counteract.  I  have  endea 
voured  to  drown  the  recollection  of  guilt  in  madness.  I  have 
justly  incurred  the  contempt  of  my  husband  by  the  attempt. 

"  Mr.  Spiffard,  you  have  been  misjudging  in  your  treatment 
of  me.  I  forgive  you.  I  have  deceived  you. 

"  I  did  hope  that  time  might  have  quieted  remorse.  I  did 
hope  that,  by  the  aid  of  a  husband,  whose  virtues  I  saw  and 
could  appreciate,  I  might,  in  time,  attain  to  a  station  in  society 
more  congenial  to  my  mind — my  proud  mind.  I  did  hope  to 
have  been  a  source  of  domestic  contentedness,  at  least,  to  my 
husband,  although  I  had  no  warmer  feelings  towards  him  than 
esteem.  But  I  could  not  confide  to  him  the  errors  (perhaps  I 
ought  to  give  them  a  harsher  title)  of  my  former  life  ;  and  I 
have  lived  in  constant  dread  of  his  discovering  them.  I  have 
at  length  been  convinced  that  he  does  not  confide  in  me.  I 
have  no  cessation  from  torment,  but  when,  by  breaking  my 


The  denouement  of  a  tragedy.  197 

promises  to  him,  I  render  myself  unfit  for  the  society  of  my 
husband  ;  and  then,  for  a  moment's  forgetfulness,  I  incur  re 
doubled  torture  for  hours.  Emma,  from  you  I  have,  in  some 
measure,  concealed  my  hours  of  degradation.  Mr.  Spiffard, 
if  this  meets  your  eye  first,  hide  it  from  the  pure  eye  of  Emma. 
I  will  not  live  the  thing  I  am.  I  have  no  hope.  I  have 
been  sinking  lower — lower — from  shame  to  deceit.  I  did  in 
tend  to  reveal — but  no.  I  forgive  my  mother!  I  ask  for 
giveness !" 


19S 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


JL  discovery  ;  and  another. 

"Look  aloft,  sir,  look  aloft!  The  old  seamen  say  the   devil  wouldn' 
make  a  sailor  unless  he  look'd  aloft."  —  Fenimore  Cooper. 

"  How  chequer'd  is  the  web  and  woof  of  life  ! 
Now  bright  with  gorgeous  eolour'd  threads, 
Now  blotted,  torn,  and  stained:  shrouded  in  darkness.  —  Anon. 

"  But  in  these  cases 
"We  shall  have  judgment  here." 

"  Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after/' 
"  Pluck  from  the  memor    a  rooted  sorro 


Raze  out  the  written 


ry  a  roote    sorrow  ; 
tablets  of  the  brain." 


"  This  disease  is  beyond  my  practice  — 
More  needs  she  me  divine  than  the  physician." 

"  Avoid  !  —  No  more. 
We  are  such  stufi'as  dreams  are  made  of." 

"  Come,  temperate  nymphs  !  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love."  —  Sliaksptare. 

"  I  have  no  other  notion  of  economy  than  that  it  is  tlic  parent  of  liberty  and 
ease.—  Swift. 

"  A  man  who  admits  himself  to  be  deceived  must  be  conscious  that  there 
is  something  upon,  or  respecting  which,  he  cannot  be  deceived.  —  Coleridge. 

WE  need  not  dwell  upon  the  scenes  which  immediately  fol 
lowed  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Epsom,  after  the  death  of  her  un 
fortunate  daughter.  It  was  soon  to  be  abandoned  by  the  per 
sonages  we  have  considered  as  our  hero  and  heroine.  The 
cause  of  the  unhappy  woman's  death  was  unknown  to  all  save 
her  husband.  He  renounced  the  stage  as  a  profession,  and 
never  more  returned  to  it.  The  links  that  connected  him  with 
society  now,  were  Emrna  Portland,  the  Johnson?,  Eliza  Ather- 


A  discover  ;  and  another.  199 

ton,  and  the  Littlejohns.  His  friendship  with  the  manager 
was  unbroken  ;  but  he  avoided  th3  festive  board.  To  Cooke 
he  adhered  until  death  severed  the  link. 

Let  not  my  readers  think  that  our  remaining  pages  are  to  be 
devoted  to  gloom.  If  there  has  been  heretofore  too  much, 
it  is  not  my  fault.  I  profess  to  tell  the  truth,  and  if  I  looked 
for  a  subject  all  bright,  all  happy,  or  even  all  pleasure  or  con 
tent,  I  must  look  beyond  this  world.  If  I  invented  a  story  all 
joy  and  gladness,  I  should  give  a  false  picture  of  human  life. 
Life  is  a  tragi-comedy.  Those  dramatists  who  have  mingled 
mirth  and  sadness,  wisdom  and  folly,  pleasure  and  pain,  joy 
and  sorrow,  life  and  death,  in  their  scenes,  have  been  the  only 
true  copyists  of  the  world's  theatre. 

Although  the  young  and  strong  and  brilliant  Mrs.  Spif- 
fard  had  been  consigned  to  the  tomb  and  the  worm,  the  dying 
Sophia  Williams  lingered  in  life.  At  the  request  of  Eliza 
Atherton,  (made  through  her  nephew)  Emma  Portland  accom 
panied  him  to  the  house  of  the  general.  Spifiard  knew  he  was 
absent.  The  general  made  frequent  visits  to  Philadelphia — 
some  said  to  see  his  sister — some  said,  for  ether  purposes.  It 
\vas  generally  during  these  visits  that  the  nephew  visited  his 
aunts. 

Miss  Atherton  left  the  chamber  of  her  suffering  sister  to 
receive  Emma  Portland.  During  their  conversation  a  person 
unexpectedly  arrived  whose  presence  threw  light  on  some  pre 
viously  detailed  incidents  of  our  story,  which  had  been  some 
what  mysterious  to  Emma,  and  perhaps  to  our  readers. 

A  gentleman  entered,  whose  voice,  as  he  directed  a  coach 
man  to  deposit  his  trunk  in  tho  hall,  had  made  Emma  start; 
but  she  was  startled  still  more,  and  shocked,  when  lie  was  in 
troduced  to  her  as  General  Williams.  In  this  accomplished 
character  she  saw  the  man  who  had  professed  himself  her 
lover — who  had  been  so  interested  in  her  welfare  as  to  wish  to 
withdraw  her  from  her  theatrical  relatives — had  pursued  her 
with  such  nattering  perseverance — the  worthy  Alderman  ©f 
Mott-street — the  ardent  Corydon  of  the  theatre  and  its  alley. 

Miss  Atherton  introduced  the  general  to  Miss  Portland, 
who  opened  her  eyes  as  the  military  hero  cast  his  to  the  floor. 
He  bowed.  Both  were  silent. 

"  Mr.  SpifTard,"  said  his  aunt,  *»  you  know  the  general.-' 

"  Yes,  madam,-'  was  emphatically  answered,  "  I  do  know 
him." 

Emma  thought,  "  I  do  know  him,"  but  she  said  nothing. 
She  was  shocked  to  find  in  General  Williams  the  detested  pro- 


200  A  discovery ;  and  another. 

fligate,  ruffian  and  hypocrite,  who  had  persecuted  her;  but  her 
accustomed  presence  of  mind  prevented  any  marked  appear 
ance  of  surprise  or  recognition ;  and  her  prudence  suggested 
that  nothing  in  her  deportment  ought  to  attract  the  attention  of 
Miss  Atherton,  or  excite  inquiry  from  her  or  Mr.  Spiffard. 
She  looked  steadily  at  the  blushing  face  of  the  criminal  before 
her  ;  coldly  answered  his  profound  bow,  while  he  half  articu 
lated  "  Very  happy  that  Miss  Portland  had  called  ;"  and  before 
the  sentence  was  completed,  Emma  took  leave  of  Miss  Ather 
ton,  (who  not  only  reciprocated  the  American  shake  of  the 
hand,  but  saluted  her  with  a  kiss,)  and  taking  the  arm  of  Spiff 
ard,  withdrew. 

Can  any  one  believe  that  virtue  does  not  reward  its  votary, 
and  vice  punish  its  slave  ?  Even  "  on  this  bank  and  shoal  of 
time"  does  not  the  honest,  the  frank,  the  true,  the  well  mean 
ing,  "  look  aloft"  and  breathe  freely,  while  the  conscience- 
stricken  wretch  writhes,  and  cowers,  and  shrinks  in  his  pre 
sence. 

Here  stood  the  female  orphan,  poor  in  worldly  endowments, 
without  relations,  and  without  fortune ;  but  rich  in  conscious 
purity — with  a  mind  unclouded  by  the  remembrance  of  any  act 
which  might  suffuse  the  face,  or  depress  the  eye. 

Before  her  stood  one  possessed  of  wealth  ;  endowed  by  edu 
cation  with  knowledge,  and  the  means  of  acquiring  wisdom ; 
enjoying  the  world's  smiles,  with  health,  strength,  towering 
stature,  and  a  person  of  nature's  fairest  form  and  proportions ; 
— yet  abashed,  trembling,  quailing  at  the  prospect  of  detection 
and  exposure  ;  feeling  the  sickness  that  might  wish  for  annihi 
lation  ;  scarcely  breathing  in  the  presence  of  the  frail  being 
who  could  testify  to  his  deep  depravity. 

Such  criminals  say,  with  Macbeth,  "  We'll  jump  the  time 
to  come."  But  they  cannot,  (and  they  do  not)  escape  the 
sword  of  Macduff,  or  the  still  more  biting  contempt  they  de 
serve.  Of  the  hereafter — ice  judge  not. 

Mere  human  reason  is  an  impartial  judge.  The  criminal 
never  escapes  the  condemnation  of  the  court  within  him.  The 
judge. may  be  hurled  from  his  seat;  but  there  is  neither  har 
mony  nor  peace  in  chaos  :  and  the  judge  regains  his  throne. 

Spiffard  and  Miss  Portland  departed.  The  accomplished 
hypocrite  turned  to  Miss  Atherton,  and  inquired,  in  softest 
tones  ho\v  Mrs.  Williams  did.  Eliza  thought  there  was  some 
thing  very  strange  in  the  behaviour  of  her  friends,  and  of  the 
general ;  but  it  might  be  attributed  to  their  dislike  to  his  cha 
racter.  Her  mind  was  soon  after  occupied  altogether  by  the 


A  discovery  ;  and  another.  201 

sufferings,  both  of  mind  and  body,  that  thronged  around  her 
unhappy  sister,  and  she  forgot  the  introductory  meeting  of 
Emma  Portland  and  General  Williams. 

He,  much  disappointed  that  the  final  scene  was  not  over, 
was  called  by  pressing  business  again  to  Philadelphia  ;  pro 
mising  to  return  at  farthest  in  two  days. 

Happily  I  am  not  under  the  necessity  of  going  into  a  detail 
of  physical  distress  and  mental  «ttgony;  the  sure  followers  of 
former  follies,  vices,  or  crimes.  We  may  control  causes,  but 
effects  are  unavoidable. 

Some  weeks  passed  before  the  death  of  Mrs.  Spiffard  was 
followed  by  that  of  Mrs.  Williams.  Though  these  persons 
were  in  character  and  circumstances  widely  different,  they  fell 
by  the  same  fatal  errors. 

The  last  moments  of  Mrs.  Williams  were  soothed  by  the 
virtues  and  tenderness  of  a  sister,  who,  to  the  common  ob 
server,  might  have  been  supposed  a  child  of  sorrow,  passing 
through  life  in  the  midst  of  misfortunes,  and  ever  borne  down 
by  a  load  of  grief.  But  was  it  so?  No.  She  had  seen  that 
the  misfortunes  of  her  family  were  occasioned  by  their  faults — 
and  she  was  armed  against  those  faults,  and  their  consequent 
sorrows.  She  strove  to  repair  the  injuries  others  had  inflicted. 
She  saw  that  it  was  the  will  of  Heaven  that  sin  should  bring 
sorrow — she  was  resigned  to  the  will  of  Heaven  ;  but  that 
resignation  does  not  withhold  the  hand  from  exertion  to  save 
those  who  are  under  the  influence  of  error  ;  and  although  the 
good  grieve*  for  the  faults  of  their  brethren,  it  is  a  grief  temper 
ed  by  the  consciousness  of  well  doing,  and  alleviated  by  the 
exertions  to  save.  The  sorrows  and  faults  of  those  who  wre 
love — of  all  our  fellow  creatures — but  more  especially  those 
tied  to  us  by  the  bonds  of  nature — will  checker  with  many 
colours,  the  days  of  the  most  patient  and  pure  of  mortals  ;  and 
Eliza  Atherton  had  seen  in  her  family  a  succession  of  events 
caused  by  folly  and  guilt,  and  ending  in  sorrow  and  shame  : 
but  she  had  been  taught  wisdom  thereby ;  and  in  the  practice 
of  benevolence  had  experienced  her  share — her  full  share  of 
happiness.  And  the  future  promised  still  more  :  for  now,  her 
conduct  during  the  last  scenes  of  her  family's  sorrows — at  the 
death-bed  of  her  once  beautiful,  admired,  cherished,  gay  and 
deluded  sister ;  while  sustaining  the  withered,  neglected,  de 
spised,  and  (but  for  her)  desponding  penitent ;  received  that 
reward  which  her  merits  deserved,  and  her  situation  in  life 
most  needed ;  a  husband  worthy  of  herself.  Not  long  after 


202  A  discovery  ;  and  another. 

the  death  of  Mrs.  Williams,  Eliza  Atherton  became  the  wife 
Thomas  Littlejohn. 

I  have  said  in  the  course  of  this  history,  (or  intended  to  say) 
that  no  American  can  marry  an  English  wife — (still  less  a 
French  or  Italian,)  without  imminent  risque  of  confront 
ing  manifold  domestic  evils  ;  unless  he  preferred  passing 
his  life  in  his  wife's  country  rather  than  his  own.  There  may 
be  many  exceptions  to  this  general  rule,  as  well  as  all  others. 
Certainly  the  union  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Littlejohn  and  Eliza 
Atherton  is  one.  She,  when  a  child,  had  hcen  brought  into 
this  country  ;  and  although  surrounded  in  her  fathei's  house 
by  the  contemners  of  every  thing  American,  their  opinions  she 
had  learned  to  distrust,  (for  children  at  a  very  early  age  dis 
cern  good  from  evil,)  and  her  own  impressions  and  opinions 
formed  at  school,  and  among  Americans,  were  all  favourable 
to  the  country.  When  carried  back  to  her  native  land,  al 
though  one  of  the  best  and  most  favoured  on  earth,  her  por 
tion  of  it:?  joys  was  overshadowed  by  the  weaknesses  of  her 
family,  their  errors,  and  their  poverty.  That  poverty  had 
been  removed  by  an  American.  From  America  she  had  re 
ceived  nothing  but  good.  Relatives  or  intimates  she  had 
none  in  England.  She  had  no  London  life  to  regret,  nor 
any  of  the  luxuries  of  refined  society  or  literary  facilities 
to  contrast  with  a  lesser  degree  of  the  same  blessings  in 
America.  In  consequence  of  the  connection  of  her  two  sis 
ters  with  the  country,  she  had  paid  particular  attention  to  its 
history  and  to  its  institutions.  She  had  a  strong  juind  from 
nature,  improved  by  study  and  observation ;  and  she  was  far 
from  concluding  that  a  nation  was  composed  of  rogues  because 
one  of  its  adventurers  was  a  swindler.  She  could  not  con 
trast  happy  days  of  youth  in  her  own  country,  with  those  of 
the  more  sober  decline  of  life,  (however  blessed  by  circum 
stances,)  which  must  arrive  to  all.  Above  ail — she  had  a  dis 
position  from  nature,  confirmed  by  experience  and  religious 
feeling  to  be  happy,  and  make  others  so.  Such  a  woman, 
united  to  a  man  who  could  appreciate  her  worth,  may  be 
happy  in  America,  let  her  be  born  where  she  wilL  We  pass 
over  the  time  of  mourning,  courtship,  and  other  affairs.  The 
youngest  Littlejohn  and  Eliza  were  married. 

The  reader  already  knows,  or  may  imagine,  where  General 
Williams  was  during  "the  last  scenes  of  his  wife's  pilgrimage. 
He  found  reasons  for  frequent  visits  to  his  relative  in  Penn 
sylvania.  After  the  last  trying  scene  he  remained  for  a  time 
at  home.  He  was  overwhelmed  with  grief  at  the  premature 


A  discovery ;  and  another.  203 

death  of  his  beloved  wife.  He  observed  all  decent  forms 
and  ceremonies,  as  may  be  supposed.  He  had  still  an  in 
come,  (the  fruit  of  the  marriage)  which  he  enjoyed  as  well, 
and  as  creditably,  as  such  a  man  might  be  expected  to  do. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Littlejohn  had  no  further  intercourse  with  him. 
Emma  never  divulged  the  secret  that  was  placed  in  her  power. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  other  personages  in  whom 
ice  are  interested,  cut  his  acquaintance.  I  will  do  the  same. 
He  returned  to  Europe,  either  disgusted  by  the  coarseness  of 
republicanism,  as  Tom  Moore,  the  disciple  of  Anacreon,  and 
the  mirror  of  elegance,  has  since  been,  or  to  avoid  a  kind  of 
suspicion,  (that  was  increasing  upon  him,)  that  his  virtues, 
talents,  knowledge  and  patriotism,  were  not  so  generally  or 
highly  appreciated  as  they  ought  to  be.  He  passed  the  re 
mainder  of  his  days  in  France.  A  monument  in  the  cemetery 
of  Pere  La  Chaise  commemorates  his  many  vhtues.  As  his 
wealth  died  with  him,  he  was  never  canonized. 

We  will  return  to  other  personages  of  importance  in  our 
story. 

Spiffard  felt,  as  a  man  of  principle  with  his  peculiar  charac 
ter,  may  be  supposed  to  feel,  under  circumstances  of  so  ex 
traordinary  a  nature  as  had  occurred  to  him.  He  regretted 
the  sternness  of  his  conduct  towards  his  wife.  He  sometimes 
reproached  himself  as  the  immediate  cause  of  her  death.  Ho 
treated  her  mother  with  tenderness.  He  felt  no  ties  of  a 
strong  or  durable  nature  between  himself  and  his  former  as 
sociates,  Cooper  excepted,  who  had  always  been  at  bottom  a 
true  friend  ;  and  who  now  yielded  to  his  wishes  of  withdrawing 
from  the  stage,  at  least  for  the  present.  To  Cooke  his 
sympathies  seemed  to  wax  stronger,  although  it  was  apparent 
that  the  cord  must  soon  be  severed.  When  he  accused  him 
self  of  hastening  the  death  of  the  unhappy  Mary,  by  behaviour 
at  times  harsh,  at  times  sullen,  always  wavering,  and  to  her 
inexplicable ;  he  conceived  that  his  conduct  in  part  to  the 
distress  of  mind  he  had  felt,  while  urged  on  by  his  compan 
ions  to  violence,  and  involved  in  a  supposed  quarrel  entered  into 
from  regard  to  her.  He  could  not  but  think  with  regret  of  the 
want  of  confidence  in  his  wife  which  his  conduct  implied  ;  and 
which  must  have  rendered  his  behaviour  onerous.  He  re 
membered  every  unkind  word  or  look  that  had  escaped  him. 
The  hints  of  the  honest  yankee  traveller  occurred  to  him. 
He  feared,  yet  he  wished  to  sound  Trusty  on  the  subject ;  and 
an  opportunity  offered  which  led  to  further  knowledge. 

Trustworthy  Davenport  was  like  his  countryman  Spiffard  in 


204  A  discovery ;  and  another. 

his  attachment  to  Cooke,  which  seemed  to  increase  as  the  ve 
teran  became  more  infirm.  This  faithful  servant  called  with  a 
note  from  the  tragedian,  and  Spiffard,  after  reading  it,  and  as 
senting  to  its  request,  felt  impelled  to  approach  the  mysterious 
subject. 

"Well,  Trusty,  all  goes  on  famously  at  the  theatre,  I 
suppose  1" 

"  I  don't  think,  I  guess,  that  it  goes  on  so  well  without  Mr. 
Cooke  and  you.  However,  I  never  go  now." 

*'  And  how  is  it  at  the  Manager's  1" 

"  Much  the  same.  The  flies  will  come  round  the  honey- 
pot." 

"  Open  house  still  1" 

"  Open  house  and  open  hand.  But  as  I  stick  close  to  the 
old  gentleman,  I  haven't  been  called  upon  to  help  George  as 
I  used  to  be  invited  when  the  company  was  large,  as  it  was 
almost  every  day,  judges  and  generals,  lawyers  and  doctors, 
and  always  Mr.  Allen,  the  most  mischievousest  of  all,  and 
the  old  colonel,  and  Mr.  Hilson — a  good-natured  laughing 
soul.  But,  as  I  said  before,  I  stay  at  home,  for  Mr.  Gooke 
wants  me  more  and  more." 

"  Davenport,  do  you  remember  what  you  said  to  me  some 
time  ago  respecting  quizzing — hoaxing — or  something  of  that 
sort?" 

"  Not  exactly." 

"  But  you  remember  you  said  you  overheard  something  that 
you  thought  might  apply  to  me  ?" 

"  It's  not  extremely  improbable  but  I  might  remember 
saying  something  of  that  nature,  but  I  disremember  the 
words." 

"  You  had  a  suspicion  which  I  then  thought  ungrounded* 
that  I  had  been  deceived — made  a — 

"  Fool  of." 

"Yes,  in  plain  language,  made  a  fool  of — and  if  so — a 
miserable  fool  indeed." 

"  Why,  plain  language  is  best,  when  one  knows  the  body 
one  is  speaking  to ;  and  I  verily  believe  there  is  not  a 
man  on  arth  that  has  less  twistification  in  thought,  word,  or 
deed  than  you,  Mr.  Spiffard.  I  did  think  there  had  been  a 
pretty  considerable  quantity  of  round-about-the-hedge  and  be- 
hind-the-bush-play  in  that  there  affair." 

"  What  affair  ?" 

"  That's  not  like  yourself,  because  you  know  what  I  mean. 
!Now  I  verily  believe — but  I  can't  assert  it — because  I  can't 


i2  discovery  ;  and  another.  205 

prove  it — that  all  1he  challenges,  and  letters,  and  messages 
about  the  duel — were  all  moonshine." 

It  is  in  vain  to  endeavour  to  portray  the  agitation  of  our 
hero's  mind  on  hearing  the  confirmation  of  his  misgivings. 
He  wished  to  be  certain — he  doubted — he  believed — he  feared 
to  know  the  truth — he  was  bewildered — the  thought  occurred, 
"  how  shall  I  act  towards  these  rnen  who  have  abused  my  un 
suspecting  faith  ? — Is  it  not  better  to  remain  in  doubt  1"  These 
vacillating  thoughts  kept  him  silent. 

Davenport  resumed.  "  I  did  think,  Mr.  Spiffard,  that  it 
was  a  shame  to  make  you  unhappy  by  a  will-of-the-wisp  con 
jured  up  for  these  young  gentlemen's  sport ;  and  I  ventured 
to  hint-like  my  conclusions  from  circumstances ;  but  I  was 
sorry  for  it  afterwards,  and  I  would  not  have  said  a  word  about 
it  now  if  you  had  not  a'  asked  me." 

"  My  good  Trusty,  tell  me  all  you  know  !" 

"  Why,  the  mischief  of  the  case  is,  I  know  nothing  certain. 
You  must  have  known  many  times,  Mr.  Spiffard,  when  you 
have  heard  and  seen  just  enough  to  make  you  draw  conclu 
sions,  and  yet  the  words  you  heard,  if  set  to  stand  alone, 
would  fall  down,  like  an  empty  bag  set  on  end,  and  mean  no 
thing." 

"  It  is  true.  But  did  you  ever  think  that  the  whole  affair — 
do  you  know  what  it  was  I" 

"  Lord  bless  you  !  I  heard  them  talk  of  challenges,  pistols, 
Hobuck,  Love-lane,  and  all  that,  that  I  knew  there  was  a 
duel,  rale  or  sham,  as  well  as  if  they  had  took  me  into  the 
plot." 

"Plot?" 

"  I  thought,  and  think  so  still,  and  can't  help  it.  I  heard 
one  of  them  say,  '  could  any  one  have  believed  that  he  could 
be  persuaded  that  the  blackguard  he  had  silenced  so  easily, 
was  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honour  V  that  I  heard  plain  as 
preaching.  And  then  what  I  told  you  before,  about  saying 
'  that  such  an  one  would  not  do,'  and  what  I  saw — and  what 
I  heard  since — a  word'here,  and  a  word  there,  makes  me  surer, 
by  connexions,  and  concoctions,  that  they  were  all  the  time 
bamboozling  you  with  a  man  of  green  cheese — what  did  they 
call  him  1" 

"  Captain  Smith." 

"  That's  the  name.  I've  heard  them  name  it  again  and 
again,  and  laugh,  and  ask,  '  when  is  Captain  Smith  to  come 
again  V  and  the  manager  would  say,  '  No,  no,  we've  had 
enough  of  it' — and  all  put  together,  is  as  sure  to  me  as  con- 

9* 


206  Jl  discovery ;  and  another. 

fessions  to  Father  Luke.  And  so  you  see,  sir,  I  know  no 
thing  that  I  can  testify." 

"  Davenport,  I  hope  you  have  said  nothing  of  this  to  any 
one  else." 

"  Certain,  I  have  not.  I  hate  a  mischief  maker.  It  was 
that  Alien  was  the  soul  of  it.  I  never  said  a  lisp  to  any  body  ; 
and  I  was  sorry  afterwards  that  I  said  any  thing  to  you." 

"  Then,  Trusty,  keep  your  suspicions  to  yourself,  as  you 
value  my  friendship." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  me.  I  love  fun  ;  but  I  hate  to  see 
that  made  game  of,  which,  as  I  take  it,  is  the  very  best  of  a 
man;  I  mean  that  disposition  to  think  other  folks  are  as  true- 
spoken  as  oneself;  and  that's  you,  Mr.  SpirTard." 

"  I  thank  you,  Davenport." 

"  There's  no  needs — for  I  can't  help  it." 

"  It  is  hard  if  a  man  cannot  confide  in  the  words  of  his 
fellow  man.  In  the  words  of  gentlemen." 

"  I  never  pretended  to  be  a  gentleman,  and  I  never  saw  the 
fun  of  telling  a  lie,  although  I  am  a  traveller.  I  have  told  you 
all  I  know,  Mr.  SpirTard,  and  what  I  have  told  you  may  be 
lieve." 

"  I  do."  Spiffard  shook  the  hard  hand  of  the  yankee 
traveller,  and  if  he  had  been  any  other  than  an  American 
in  the  station  of  a  servant,  he  would  have  followed  up  the  im 
pulse  he  felt  to  put  money  in  the  hand,  but  he  knew  his  own 
countrymen  too  well. 

Trustworthy  departed,  and  our  hero  threw  himself  on  a 
chair,  and  thought  over  all  the  late  circumstances  of  an  affair 
that  had  so  agitated  him  at  the  time,  and  still  perplexed  him. 
His  conviction  that  he  had  been  made  a  dupe  of,  for  the  sport 
of  others,  and  that  his  anxiety  had  soured  his  better  feelings, 
and  tended  to  produce  the  fatal  event  which  hung  heavy  on  his 
mind — his  wavering  in  thought  as  to  the  conduct  he  ought  to 
pursue  towards  these  young  men — the  shame  of  avowing  his 
credulity — his  aversion  to  acknowledge  that  he  had  been 
moved  as  a  puppet  by  a  man  so  inferior  to  himself  as  Mr. 
Allen, — all  these  mingling  and  contending  thoughts  long  un 
fitted  him  for  business  and  society.  He  however  became 
calm  by  degrees,  and  came  to  the  wise  resolution  of  suiting 
his  companions  to  his  habits  ;  and  so  to  behave  towards  his 
former  associates,  that  they  should  have  no  clue  to  his  sus 
picion,  or  his  conviction  of  their  frivolous  conduct.  With 
his  friend,  the  manager,  he  made  no  change,  except  to  with 
draw  himself  from  his  hospitable  board ;  recent  circumstances 
were  sufficient  as  his  excuse. 


2C7 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


The  death  of  G.  F.  Cooke. 


"  Men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass;  their  virtues 
We  write  in  water." 


"Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfied 
Is  not  of  Heaven  nor  earth.' 

"  So  happy  be  the  issue  *  *  * 

The  venom  of  such  looks,  we  fairly  hope, 

Have  lost  their  quality,  and  that  this  day 

Shall  change  all  griefs,  and  quarrels,  into  love." — Shakspcare. 


THE  murders  (including  suicides  and  deaths  by  duelling) 
that  are  the  fruits  of  intemperance,  constitute  far  the  greater 
portion  of  those  which  stain  the  records  of  the  judicial,  or  pri 
vate  history  of  society. 

The  brutal  quarrels  which  end  in  the  immediate  death  of  one 
or  both  of  the  parties  ;  the  polite  differences  that  are  termi 
nated  in  blood  by  the  sword  or  pistol ;  the  female  victims  who 
are  sacrificed  by  drunken  husbands,  and  who  sink  under  vio 
lence  more  barbarous  than  the  most  ferocious  soldier  perpe 
trates,  when  in  the  career  of  glorious  victory  he  sacks  a  city — 
or  the  wives  who  sink  sorrowfully  by  the  slow  torture  of  disap 
pointed  hope  ;  the  deadly  blow  inflicted  by  jealousy  stimulated 
to  madness  after  the  enticing"  draught ;  the  self-murder  com 
mitted  under  the  immediate  influence  of  alcohol ;  or  the  de 
liberate,  suicidal,  dastardly  crime,  which  is  weeks,  and  month?, 
and  years  in  the  accomplishing  :  all  belong  to  the  same  fami 
ly,  and  fill  the  greater  part  of  the  history  of  guilt. 

It  is  our  task  to  record  a  few  instances  of  the  misery  occa 
sioned  by  this  deplorable  vice.  They  are  not  creations  of  the 
fancy,  but  the  sad  picture  of  reality,  softened  in  feature  and 


208  The  death  of  G.  F.  Cooke. 

colouring,  rather  than  exaggerated,  or  even  exhibited  in  a 
strong  light.  The  story  of  the  eminent  tragedian  who  has  oc 
cupied  so  many  of  our  pages,  is  an  example  of  the  latter  class 
of  suicides.  May  his  tale  (the  tale  of  thousands,)  be  a  salu 
tary  warning  to  those  who  read  it !  and  may  this  simple  cata 
logue  of  murders,  all  springing  from  the  same  source,  make 
the  young  turn  from  the  temptation  which  besets  them  ;  and 
the  old,  who  may  have  erred  during  the  customs  of  "  thirty 
years  ago,"  abjure  that  which  is  destroying  themselves,  and  is 
a  snare  to  those  who  follow  them  ! 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  assert,  or  insinuate,  that  the  detestable 
vice  which  is  the  parent  of  so  many  crimes,  is  (or  has  been) 
more  prevalent  in  this  country  than  in  others.  Lamentable  as 
are  the  instances  I  have  recorded,  they  are  but  a  few  of  the 
many  I  have  witnessed.  Yet  we  know  that  in  Europe  the 
same  destruction  is  going  on  triumphantly.  Witness  the  gin 
palaces,  and  the  theatres  of  London.  I  will  quote  from  an 
American  author  of  the  highest  character,  who  is  known  not 
to  spare  the  faults  of  his  countrymen.  "  On  the  whole,"  says 
James  Fenimore  Cooper  in  his  Switzerland,  "  I  repeat  for  the 
eleventh  time,  that  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  there  is  less 
of  this  degrading  practice  at  home,  among  the  native  popula 
tion,  than  in  any  other  country  I  have  yet  visited.  Certainly 
much  less  than  there  is  either  in  England  or  France." 

But  let  us  not  cease  our  endeavours  to  eradicate  a  practice 
that  is  so  deadly  to  every  faculty  of  body  and  mind  ! 

The  note  from  Cooke,  mentioned  in  the  last  chapter,  re 
quested  the  immediate  presence  of  his  young  friend ;  who 
accordingly  repaired,  after  composing  his  thoughts,  to  the 
lodgings  of  the  tragedian.  He  first  told  Miss  Portland,  who 
still  for  a  short  time  remained  with  her  aunt,  where  he  was 
going. 

On  his  arrival  he  found  that  the  physicians  were  in  consulta 
tion  in  an  adjoining  chamber.  Davenport  was  in  attendance 
on  Cooke.  Spiffard  was  struck  by  the  evident  change  in  the 
old  gentleman's  appearance,  although  he  had  recently  seen 
him. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  my  young  friend.  I  have  a  request 
to  make.  You  must  introduce  that  angel  to  me  who  saved 
me,  for  a  little  while ;  whether  for  better  or  not,  is  something 
doubtful ;  but,  at  all  events,  I  would  thank  her — I  would  see 
her  sweet  face  instead  of  those  of  Davenport  and  the  Doctor's. 
They  are  holding  a  consultation  in  the  next  room,  as  to  the 
time  of  execution,!  presume,  for  condemnation  is  past.  There 


The  death  of  G.  F.  Cooke.  209 

is  a  gathering  of  them  ;   for  you  know  where  the  carcase  is 
"  there  will  the  crows  be  gathered  together." 

"  It  is  '  eagles,'  not  crows.    You  misquote,"  said  Spiffard. 

"  Birds  of  prey — birds  of  prey — call  them  what  you  will, 
eagles  or  crows  : — these  are  good  fellows.  They  are  consult 
ing — but  I  know  the  result — I  can't  last  many  hours." 

He  spoke  in  a  husky  voice,  little  above  a  whisper ;  but 
smiled  in  the  face  of  his  friend,  and  pressed  his  hand  affec 
tionately. 

The  principal  among  the  many  liberal  minded  medical  men 
of  the  city,  were  interested  in  the  welfare  of  the  tragedian. 
Doctors  Caclwallader,  Hosack,  McLean,  and  Francis,  were 
at  this  moment  in  consultation.  They  entered,  and  Cadvvalla- 
der,  as  the  oldest,  communicated  their  opinion  in  as  gentle 
terms  as  he  could  devise  ;  for  they  had  thought  proper  to  no 
tify  the  sick  man  that  he  had  but  a  few  hours  to  live. 

"  Doctor,"  said  the  patient,  in  the  same  low  whisper,  but 
with  a  look  that  seemed  to  contradict  the,ir  opinion,  "  we  must 
all  play  the  principal  part  in  life's  last  scene,  and  I  am  favour 
ed  in  having  such  prompters  and  actors  with  me."  Pie  then 
added,  with  levity,  perhaps  to  be  attributed  to  disease,  or  the 
composing  draught  of  the  previous  night,  "  I  have  for  a  great 
while  played  $.9  first  part — perhaps  I  have  now  the  most  diffi 
cult — the  next  will  be  mere  dumb  show,  the  part,  of  a  mute  in 
the  churchyard  scene.  I  have  played  every  speaking  part  in 
Hamlet,  from  the  prince  to  the  grave  digger  ;  the  next  will  be 
the  skull.  Some  fellow  with  a  dirty  spade  will  be  thumping 
me  on  the  pate  ;  or  some  learned  philosopher  will  read  a  homi 
ly  on  the  effects  of  the  passions  or  appetites  upon  the  bones  of 
the  cranium,  for  the  benefit  of  medicine  or  morals.  '  Where 
be  your  gibes  now! — Quite  chap-fallen  !' — Well,  well,  4  And  a 
man's  life  is  no  more  than  to  say,  one.' " 

The  dying  man,  for  such  he  was,  appeared  less  to  feel  his 
situation  than  any  one  present — Spiffard  and  Davenport  more, 
There  was  silence  for  a  time,  which  was  broken  by  the  audi 
ble  sobs  of  Trustworthy,  who  had  been  sitting  by  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  but  not  being  able  to  repress  his  emotion,  started  up 
and  left  the  room. 

Cooke,  on  hearing  and  seeing  this,  hid  his  face  on  the  pil 
low  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  looking  up  with  recovered 
firmness,  addressed  Doctor  Cadwallader. 

"  I  thank  you,  Doctor,  for  being  frank  with  me.  I  thought  it 
must  be  so.  I  have  often  been  racked  with  pain  similar  to, 
but  more  violent  than  I  have  lately  felt ;  but  I  never  thought 


The  death  of  G.  F.  Cooke. 

it  was  death's  hand  that  was  on  me  till  to-day.  I  am  now 
comparatively  free  from  pain.  I  have  whimpered,  and  whined, 
as  you  know,  Mr.  Spiffard,  and  have  been  as  maudlin  at  one 
time,  as  brutal  at  another.  I  see  it  all  now.  I  have  no  dis 
position  to  be  lachrymose ;  but  if  I  could  undo  some  of  the 
mischief  I  have  done,  I  should  be  the  happier  for  it.  That's 
past — that's  past! — but  I  have  a  strong  desire  to  see  and 
serve — essentially  serve  those  who  preserved  me  when  I  other 
wise  should  have  perished  like  a  houseless  cur  in  the  snow  of 
the  streets.  Mr.  Spiffard,  you  know — that  night ! — O  that 
night !  It  is  present  in  my  dreams ;  and  oftener,  in  my  waking 
reveries ;  oftener  than  my  words  have  indicated.  That  night ! 
That  night." 

"  Your  feelings  are  too  much  excited." 

"  I  must  prohibit  talking." 

"  Nay,  Doctor,  a  few  minutes  longer  or  shorter — an  hour 
more  or  less — matters  not  now  ;  but  a  deed  of  justice  matters 
much.  There  was  a  young  nymph-like  figure  that  hovered 
around  me — an  angel — perhaps  a  token  of  forgireness.  I  re 
cognised  her  as  one  I  had  seen  before — but  then  there  were 
others  that  I  thought  I  had  seen  and  heard  before ;  but  that 
was  madness.  Mr.  Spiffard,  you  have  acknowledged  that  you 
know  who  the  angel  was." 

"  I  have  told  you,  Sir.     It  was  the  niece  of  Mrs.  Epsom." 

"  Can  I  see  her?     Do  I  know  her?" 

"  You  once  rescued  her  from  insult  at  the  theatre." 

"  I  remember !  and  she  rescued  me  from  death.  Can  I 
see  her?" 

Spiffard  assured  him  that  he  thought  she  would  attend  at 
his  request. 

The  physicians  interfered  to  prevent  excitement,  and  told 
him  that  it  was  only  on  condition  of  his  being  composed,  they 
<iould  promise  him  the  power  to  express  his  gratitude  to  Miss 
Portland.  He  promised  obedience,  and  his  physicians,  leav 
ing  such  medicines  as  were  necessary,  departed.  Spiffard, 
promising  him  to  bring  Emma  to  see  him,  left  him  with  his 
faithful  attendants. 

The  next  morning  Spiffard  conducted  Emma  Portland  to 
the  bed  side  of  the  grateful  old  man.  She  might  have  felt 
some  reluctance  at  the  thought  of  being  brought  forward  to 
receive  thanks  for  what  appeared  to  her  as  the  common  duty 
of  humanity,  but  she  had  higher  views  and  holier  hopes  to  sup 
port  her. 

She  knew,  though  her  conductor  did  not,  the  relation  in 


The  death  of  G.  F.  Cooke.  211 

which  her  betrothed  and  his  mother  stood  to  the  erring  man. 
They  had  determined  to  remain  unknown  to  him,  and  to  con 
tinue  the  name  and  character  in  which  they  had  heretofore  ap 
peared  in  the  country  of  their  adoption.  There  were  perhaps 
engagements  which  he  had  entered  into  on  the  supposition  of 
their  death,  which  were  not  to  be  broken  or  disturbed.  But 
Emma,  among  other  hopes,  felt  a  wish  to  be,  although  in 
secret,  a  link  between  the  man  who  was  to  be  her  husband — 
the  woman  who  was  already  her  second  mother — and  the  peni 
tent  who  had  abandoned  them ;  and  worse,  driven  them  from 
him. 

Unhesitatingly  she  approached  the  man  who  only  twice  be 
fore  had  b^en  in  her  presence ;  once  acting  as  her  guardian 
and  protestor  from  insult,  and  once  wanting  even  such  protec 
tion  as  her  weak  frame,  but  strong  mind,  could  give,  to  save 
him  from  death — the  death  of  the  unsheltered  outcast  wan 
derer. 

Cooke  held  out  his  hand  and  welcomed  the  lovely  girl.  At 
his  request,  and  with  the  permission  of  one  of  his  kind  physi 
cians,  he  was  bolstered  up,  as  he  said,  "  to  look  once  more  on 
the  face  of  an  angel." 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,"  said  Emma,  blushing,  "  to  see  you  so 
reduced  in  strength." 

"  You  have  seen  me  in  a  worse  plight." 
"  I  have  seen  you  a  gallant  knight  rescuing  a  forlorn  dam 
sel  from  the  attack  of  a  monster,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"  Monster,  indeed,  that  would  injure  you  /" 
"  And  I  hope  to  see  you  again   protecting  the  weak,  and 
aiding  the  distressed." 
"  No,  no!" 

"  Mr.  Cooke,"  said  his  physician,  "  you  must  make  your 
interview  short." 

"  Well,  well,  I  will  obey*,  First,  my  dear  young  lady,  re 
ceive  my  thanks  for  saving  me  from  a  dog's  death.  Don't 
say  a  word.  I  must  be  concise.  You  must  do  me  a  favour. 
I  understand  that  the  good  people  who  received  me  under  their 
roof  on  that  right,  have  had  a  happy  reverse  of  fortune. 
They,  therefore,  do  not  need,  and  have  refused,  pecuniary 
tokens  of  my  gratitude.  Be  it  so.  You  must  mediate  be 
tween  them  and  me.  You  must  prevail  on  the  lady  to  receive 
and  wear  a  ring,  as  a  remembrancer.  You  must  give  it  with 
my  blessing  and  thanks — no  one  can  deny  you.  Trusty !  in 
my  desk,  of  which  you  keep  the  key,  you  will  find  in  the  left 
hand  drawer  a  ring-case.  Bring  it  to  me."  It  was  brought 

VOL.  II.  15 


212  The  death  of  G.  F.  Cooke. 

to  him.  "  This  ring  has  had  no  owner  for  twenty  years  and 
more — let  it  remind  that  good  lady  that  George  Frederick  died 
gratefully  remembering  her." 

He  sunk  back  after  Emma  had  received  the  jewel.  The 
physician  hurried  her  and  Spiffard  out  of  the  room.  In  an 
hour  from  that  time  the  worn-out  frame  of  the  great  tragedian 
was  lifeless.* 


*  The  remains  of  George  Frederick  Cooke  were  buried  in  St.  Paul's 
Church  Yard,  New- York,  (after  certain  portions  were  abstracted,)  and  a 
monument  was  some  years  afterwards  placed  over  them  by  Edmund 
Kean,  a  man  of  great  geniuss  who  followed  in  Cooke's  steps,  arid  exceeded 
him,  if  not  in  skill,  certainly  in  depravity ;  and  of  course  sunk  earlier  in 
life  to  debility,  disease,  and  the  tomb.  The  writer  of  Kean's  life  tells  us  a 
story  of  Kean  and  Cooke's  great  toe.  If  other  parts  of  his  book  are  as 
accurate,  his  hero,  who  is  represented  as  a  profligate,  may  have  been  a 
saint.  It  is  true,  that  Kean  carried,  as  a  relic,  to  England,  a  fragment  of 
the  man  he  imitated.  It  was  the  bones  of  that  fore-finger  with  which 
George  Frederick  enforced  the  words  of  his  author  in  a  manner  never  to 
be  forgotten  by  those  who  saw  him  on  the  stage. 

It  has  been  my  task  to  exhibit,  I  hope  for  the  good  of  my  fellow  creatures, 
the  effects  of  intemperance  upon  the  external  appearance,  conduct,  moral 
character  and  happiness  of  this  extraordinary  man,  and  I  have  called  upon 
Dr.  John  W.  Francis,  one  of  his  physicians,  to  aid  me,  by  showing  the  in 
ternal  ravages  of  the  fiend  upon  those  organs  which  the  beneficent  Author 
of  Nature  has  given  for  our  comfort  and  usefulness,  as  evinced  in  the  case 
of  Mr.  Cooke  and  others.  I  make  an  extract  from  his  most  valuable  reply 
to  my  interrogatories :  a  portion  of  which  is  already  given. 

"  Every  body  knows  that  intemperance  exercises  a  singularly  direct  in 
fluence  on  the  liver :  the  pancreas  and  the  spleen  are  also  deeply  affected 
by  long  continued  inebriety,  particularly  the  pancreas.  The  researches  of 
the  pathologist  have  led  him  to  describe  several  striking  alterations  in  the 
liver.  It  may  become,  by  free  drinking,  preternatural!  y  hard  or  scirrhous ;  be 
converted  into  an  entire  mass  of  tubercles  ;  and  these  may  be  more  or  less 
deep  seated  or  superficial,  with  or  without  abscess;  its  whole  structure 
may  also  be  changed  :  it  may  be  rendered,  by  undue  excitement,  congested 
and  obstructed,  and  become  extraordinarily  enlarged ;  and  we  may  here 
remark,  that  the  inordinate  plethora  of  the  blood-vessels,  which  so  repeat 
edly  accompanies  excess  in  eating  and  hard  drinking,  evinces  its  powers 
particularly  on  this  organ.  But  many  pages  could  be  devoted  to  a  descrip 
tion  of  the  diseased  changes  which  have  been  noticed  in  this  important 
part  of  the  human  economy.  I  once  ask^d  old  Mr.  Fife,  the  anatomist  at 
Edinburgh,  who  was  dissector  at  the  University,  how  great  was  the  largest 
sized  liver  he  had  ever  encountered  in  his  examination  of  dead  bodies  for 
collegiate  purposes  ?  He  answered  fifty-seven  pounds  !!  and  this  occurred 
in  the  person  of  an  inebriate  who  had  long  lived  in  the  East  Indies.  You 
may  judge  the  more  accurately  of  the  ponderosity  of  this  liver,  when  you 
reflect  that  the  ordinary  size  of  the  organ  may  vary  from  four  to  seven  or 
eight  or  nine  pounds ;  and  you  might  infer  that  such  a  liver  would  have 
formed  bile  enough  for  an  army ;  yet  this  man  died  from  the  deficiency  of 
this  secretion.  The  livers  of  those  who  abuse  their  constitution  by  alco 
holic,  or  distilled  drink,  is,  however,  generally  preternaturally  diminished 
and  found  in  a  scirrhous  state ;  while  fermented  drinks  will  the  rather  aug 
rnent  the  volume  of  the  organ ;  such  at  least  I  have  found  to  be  the  fac- 
in  several  dissections.  In  poor  George  Frederick  Cooke,  as  you  may  refc 
collect,  the  liver  was  very  small,  studded  with  tubercles,  and  as  hard,  as- 
cartilage.  The  pancreas,  so  important  to  serve  healthy  digestion,  under* 


The  death  of  G.  F.  Cooke.  213 

On  the  return  of  SpifFard  and  Emma  to  Mrs.  Epsom's, 
they  found  Henry  Johnson.  It  was  Emma's  intention  to  visit 
Mrs.  Johnson  and  execute  her  trust  in  private ;  but  before 
she  left  home  for  this  purpose,  Davenport  brought  the  tidings 
to  Spiffard  of  the  death  of  Cooke,  and  in  all  haste  the  young 
man  repaired  with  the  messenger  to  the  spot,  where  he  still 
found  the  physician. 

Henry  and  Emma  repaired  to  Mrs.  Johnson's.  The  young 
bearer  of  thanks  delivered  the  message.  But  on  the  sight  of 
the  ring  Mrs.  Johnson  was  deeply  affected. 

"  My  children,"  she  said,  after  being  relieved  by  tears, 
tl  this  ring  was  a  present  to  me  before  marriage.  When  I  fled 
my  country  I  returned  it.  See  how  it  has  come  again.  Henry  I 
ought  I  not  to  see  him  ?" 

"  It  is  too  late,  madam,  if  it  were  right — it  is  too  late.  This 
message  to  you  was  the  last  sentence  he  spoke." 


Strange  as  it  may  appear,  the  health  of  that  amiable  woman 
was  restored  ;  seemingly  mending  from  that  time.  She  lived 
long  to  witness  and  enjoy  the  happiness  of  Henry  and  Emma. 
He,  after  a  time,  the  prosperous  partner  of  Littlejohn  &  Co., 
as  well  as  of  the  once  Emma  Portland.  She  a  thriving  part 
ner  in  a  no  less  prosperous  concern.  The  prosperity  of  both 
houses  based  on  the  immoveable  foundation  of  temperance. 


goes  many  alterations  in  the  bodies  of  inebriates ;  a  scirrhous  condition  is 
perhaps  the  most  frequent.  The  spleen  seems  most  to  suffer  from  the  con 
sequences  of  inordinate  excitement,  and  becomes  overloaded." 

"  Other  parts  of  the  economy  are  also  brought  to  suffer  from  the  rebellious 
influence  of  alcohol ;  but  I  should  trespass  far  beyond  the  prescribed  limits 
to  detail  them  here.  Enough  has  perhaps  already  been  given  in  these  im 
perfect  notes;  a  large  catalogue  would  neither  suit  your  plan,  nor  my  pie- 
sent  convenience.  Moreover,  ex  pede  Herculem." 

$* 
Very  sincerely  your  friend, 

J.  W.  FRANCIS, 


WM.  DUNLAP,  Esq. 


214 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 
M  disposed  of. 

"  To  say  nothing,  or  to  say  all  you  think,  and  at  all  times,  provided  no 
personal  offence  is  intended,  or  sought  to  be  given,  is  the  course  for  an  honest 
man,  for  a  lover  of  truth,  invariably  to  pursue.'' — Anon. 

"Thither  in  a  sieve  I'll  sail." 

"  To  what  issue  will  this  come." 

"Read  on  this  book." 

"  I  hold  it  fit  that  we  shake  hands  and  part." — Shakapeare. 

"  Fame  is  the  wise  man's  means ;  but  his  ends  are  his  own  good,  and 
the  good  of  society. — Bolingbroke. 

"  Purpose  is  but  the  slave  of  memory.    Farewell. — Shakspeare. 

THE  REV.  MR.  LITTLEJOHN  sat  between  his  father  and  wife. 
He  had  been  intently  reading  the  Scriptures. 

"  I  strongly  desire  again  to  become  a  teacher  of  the  lessons 
of  life,  but  I  must  refrain  for  years  yet  to  come.  I  will  employ 
those  years  in  those  studies  which  enrich  the  mind  and  fit  the 
student  for  his  high  calling.  I  will  not  ascend  the  pulpit  until 
the  world  is  convinced  that  the  former  aberration  of  my  reason 
has  left  no  traces  but  those  of  salutary  humiliation  and  sell- 
doubting.  " 

"  My  son,  the  perfect  restoration  of  your  health  and  reason 
are  already  proved." 

"  To  you — not  to  the  world — not  to  the  public — who  are 
more  prone  to  observe  the  failing  than  the  amendment.  I  do 
not  mean  to  censure  them  for  it.  The  failing  was  glaringly 
obtrusive  :  the  amendment  is  quiet,  and  shrinking  from  obser 
vation.  Quiet  does  not  catch  the  attention  of  the  busy  or  the 
gay  ;  and  the  busy  or  the  gay  are  the  world.  Man  may  justly 
require  a  long  continuation  of  the  interrupted  exertion  of  rea 
son,  to  give  assurance  of  perfect  restoration  and  habitual 


Jill  disposed  of.  215 

health  of  mind,  in  one  who  professes  to  teach  truth.  I  have 
in  you,  my  father,  and  you,  Eliza,  a  double  assurance  that  I 
shall  continue  in  the  paths  of  peace." 

He  pressed  his  father's  hand.  The  old  man's  eyes  filled 
with  tears  of  love  and  joy.  Eliza  threw  herself  on  her  hus 
band's  neck  and  wept.  He  alone  could  speak. 

"  The  restoration  of  physical  and  mental  health ;  the-  gifts 
of  fortune  and  of  such  friend?,  might  be  thought  enough  for 
earthly  happiness ;  if  we  did  not  know  that  happiness  can  only 
be  gained  by  continued  efforts  to  bless  cur  fellow  men — by 
doing  our  duty  to  man,  and  thereby  doing  the  will  of  Gcd." 

With  such  views  and  resolutions  we  may  leave  this  domestic 
circle. 

One  of  the  personages  introduced  to  the  reader,  and  for 
whom  I  hope  some  interest  is  felt,  was  not  inclined  to  quiet. 

George  Frederick  Cooke  had  not  neglected  his  faithful  ser 
vant  ;  and  Trustworthy  Davenport  found  himself,  by  the  accu 
mulation  of  wages,  and  a  handsome  legacy,  in  possession  of 
what  he  said  was  "  a  considerable  small  fortune." 

After  he  had  most  sincerely  mourned  for  his  friend  and  mas 
ter,  he  told  Dennis  Dogherty  that  he  was  "  railly  at  a.  nonplush 
as  to  what  next  to  do." 

"  Why  don't  you  set  up  for  Congress  V  said  Dennis. 

"  No.  I  don't  like  to  talk  and  do  nothing  ;  besides  I  like  to 
have  my  own  way.  I  have  determined  to  travel ;  but  I  am  at 
a  loss  to  make  up  my  mind  as  to  the  how,  or  the  which  way." 

"  Travel.     For  what  would  you  travel]" 

"  To  see  the  world  and  bring  home  notions.  I  never  was 
tied  to  one  spot  so  long  before  ;  and  now  that  I  can't  help  the 
only  cretur  on  arth  I  ever  called  my  master — now  thai  good 
man — that  mought  a'  been,  if  he  would  a'  took  the  water  natu 
rally — now  that  he  is  gone,  I  must  go." 

"  Not  the  same  way,  sure  V 

"  Not  yit.  But  I  was  born  with  the  desire  to  travel.  My 
mammy  never  could  keep  me  long  enough  on  her  lap  to  feed 
me.  I  have  got  the  name  of  the  Yankee  traveller,  and  I  well 
deserve  it.  To  be  sure  I  might,  now  that  I  have  serv'd  a  sort 
of  'prenticeship  to  the  stage — I  might  make  my  debiitt,  as  they 
call  it,  and  then  go  to  London  as  a  star,  "  slow  rising  from  the 
west,"  as  one  of  the  poets  has  it.  But  I  have  an  objection  to 
stand  up,  without  any  breast  work,  to  be  shot  at  by  encores  or 
hisses,  just  as  any  drunken  blackguard  or  conceited  coxcomb 
pleases,  and  have  no  chance  to  fire  back  again.  No !  Free 
trade  and  travel  for  Trusty!" 


216  Ml  disposed  of. 

44  But  what  will  you  get  by  it?" 

44  Knowledge  arid  seal-skins.  I  never  envied  any  man  so 
much  as  my  brother  Yankee,  that  Ledyard,  who  kept  going 
round  the  world,  as  long  as  he  could  go  ahead,  by  land  or 
water,  and  rather  than  not  be  going  he  would  go  barefoot  to 
Siberia.  Then  there  was  another  Yankee,  that  Shockford, 
a  rale  water-dog,  that  mann'd  his  own  vessel  with  his  own 
hands—" 

"  Niggers,  I  suppose." 

41  And  steered  her  with  his  own  head.  Himself  captain, 
mate,  cook,  cabin-boy  and  crew !  How  grand  that  fellow 
must  have  felt  when  he  danced  on  the  waves,  and  buffetted  the 
winds  !  When  he  had  the  whole  ocean  to  himself,  and  could 
say  to  the  sun,  "  You  and  I  are  the  only  creturs  above  this 
wide  and  boundless  prairie  orsalt  water,  and  for  aught  I  know, 
I  am  the  greater  of  the  two  !" 

Trusty,  who  could  not  be  stopped  by  Dennis's  "  Niggers," 
was  now  silent  in  the  contemplation  of  his  imagined  sublimity  ; 
and  the  Hibernian  was  as  much  bewildered  as  one  of  that 
clear-headed  race  could  be. 

"  Mr.  Devilsport,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  Dis  is  not  the  first 
time  that  you  have  bother'd  me  :  and  what  you  mane  by  your 
self  and  your  son,  and  your  hands  and  your  mate,  I  don't  com 
prehend  exactly  at  all.  But  is  it  how  you  are  to  manage  to 
spind  your  fortune  now  you  are  Cooke's  executor  ]" 

"  His  legatee.  Heaven  bless  him,  I  didn't  call  him  master 
for  the  sake  of  a  legacy.  He  is  gone,  and  so  I'll  travel.  I 
am  rich — that  is,  I  am  well  to  do  in  the  world,  if  I  do  well. 
Plain  dealing  and  switchell  for  that." 

il  If  I  understand,  you  have  not  yet  made  up  your  mind." 

"  Pretty  much.  Travel  I  will.  But  whether  I  shall  invest 
my  funds  in  a  carriage,  horse,  and  a  stock  of  wooden  clocks 
and  tin  ware  for  the  western  states  and  territories,  and  so 
travel  by  land  ;  or  whether  I  shall  build  a  vessel,  load  her,  and 
navigate  her  round  Cape  Horn  to  trade  with  the  savages  and 
cannibals  of  the  South  Sea  Islands ;  then  cross  the  Pacific  to 
China,  and  return  by  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  I  have  not  yet 
determined." 

44  Blood  and  tunder !  Why  you  must  have  a  bank  or  a  trea 
sury  department  of  your  own  to  do  all  that.  Build  a  ship — 
man  her  and  victual  her !  You  have  big  notions,  Mr.  Devils- 
port  !" 

"Yankee  notions.  Did  you  not  hear  of  a  man  who  crossed 
the  Atlantic  in  a  boat  just  big  enough  to  carry  himself,  his 


M  disposed  of.  217 

provisions  and  water ;  mann'd  her  with  himself,  and  by  himself, 
and  was  owner,  captain,  mate  and  crew?" 

"  That  I  did  not.     And  what  countryman  was  he  ?" 

"  What  country  but  Yankee-land  could  grow  sich  a  cretur  ? 
Now  if  he  could  do  that  thing,  I'll  be  swampt  if  I  don't  do 
more." 

"  And  swampt  you  will  be,  sure  enough." 

"  I've  a  conceit  that  I'll  be  the  greatest  Yankee-traveller  the 
world  ever  saw.  Yes,  Dennis,  I  think  the  south  sea  voyage 
is  more  sublime  than  the  tin-cart !" 

As  we  have  not  heard  of  any  extraordinary  sensation  pro 
duced  by  Trustworthy  in  the  territories,  or  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains,  we  suppose  that  he  indulged  himself  as  a  navigator,  and 
is  now  luxuriating  in  the  Sandwich  Islands,  or  exploring  the 
yellow  sea,  or  making  discoveries  at  one  or  other  pole.  We 
doubt  not  his  safety,  and  unless  when  he  returns  he  should 
write  his  autobiography  or  reminiscences,  we  hope  to  be  em 
ployed  for  the  benefit  of  posterity  in  doing  both  for  him. 

I)ennis  aspired  to  a  seat  in  congress.  His  first  step  was 
a  corner  grocery,  by  which  he  found  that  the  city  elections 
were  to  be  influenced  through  the  naturalized.  How  high  he 
stands  on  the  ladder  we  know  not. 


George  Frederick  Cooke  died  on  the  26th  of  September, 
1812.  Attended  to  the  last  by  his  family  physician,  his  trusty 
valet,  and  one  who  had  been  his  faithful  nurse  throughout  his 
illness.  None  knew  the  story  of  Mrs  Johnson  and  her  son, 
but  that  son's  wife. 

Of  the  inferior  actors  in  our  tragi-comedy,  one  more  shall 
be  noticed.  Old  Kent  married  a  second  wife,  but  never  for 
got  the  first.  In  process  of  time,  with  his  younger  wife, 
and  a  brood  of  young  Rents,  he  wisely  determined,  for  his 
children's  sake,  to  remove  to  Liberia,  where  we  hope  he  is 
still  usefully  employed  as  a  teacher,  and  keeper  of  a  circu 
lating  library,  his  school  well  attended,  and  his  books  (among 
which  we  hope  this  will  be  placed)  much  sought  after.  He 
•writes  occasionally  to  his  friends  in  New  York,  particularly 
Mrs.  Emma  Johnson  ;  and  joins  in  blessing  the  leaders  and 
supporters  of  the  society  for  removing  the  descendants  of 
Africans  to  the  land  of  their  fathers,  imbued  with  those  prin 
ciples  and  precepts — instructed  in  that  knowledge  and  those 
arts,  which  will  make  the  desert  bloom  as  a  garden,  and  cause 


218  Mdispostdof. 

the  white  man  to  blush  at  the  thought  that  ever  there  should 
have  been  a  day  in  which  it  was  necessary  for  the  negro  to 
cry,  "  am  I  not  a  man  and  a  brother?'  while  exposed  for  sale 
to  the  highest  bidder  in  the  city  of  Washington. 

Before  the  marriage  of  Eliza  Atherton  to  Thomas  Little- 
john,  she  insisted  upon  Spiffard's  receiving  such  accumulation 
as  had  accrued  of  the  proceeds  of  the  annuity  which  he,  in  his 
days  of  supposed  wealth,  had  liberally  purchased  for  the 
Atherton  family.  After  her  marriage,  the  benefit  of  the  whole 
was  transferred  to  him.  This  made  him  independent:  the 
Littlejohns  insisted  upon  his  receiving  that  which  was  no 
longer  needed  by  those  who  had  enjoyed  his  benevolence. 
He  became  a  traveller  ;  but  a  less  ambitious  one  than  his 
fellow  Yankee. 


Twelve  years  after  the  death  of  Mrs.  SpifFard,  a  little  thin 
gentleman  was  seen  mounting  to  the  pulpit  of  a  church  in 
Virginia  ;  and  to  the  surprise  of  the  stranger,  who  had  arrived 
from  New  York,  he  recognised  Zebediah  SpifFard,  his  old 
acquaintance  of  the  Park  Theatre.  After  hearing  a  most  ex 
cellent  sermon,  the  stranger  waited  in  the  street  to  accost  the 
preacher,  and  accomplished  a  meeting,  after  the  reverend 
man  had  passed  through  the  kind  and  affectionate  greetings 
of  a  large  congregation.  He  was,  after  due  study,  ordained. 
He  enjoyed  the  fruits  of  his  experience  and  of  his  benevolent 
disposition,  having  all  the  comforts  of  life  about  him,  except  a 
wife.  But  there  existed  in  Virginia  circumstances  which,  after 
struggling  against  them  in  vain,  forced  him  to  return  to  the  north. 
Many  were  the  inducements  to  remain  in  that  favoured  land  : 
frank  manners,  kind  dispositions,  unbounded  hospitality ; 
but  he,  even  ai  that  day,  he  set  his  heart  upon  establishing  a 
"  temperance  society,"  foreseeing  that  if  such  a  plant  could 
be  made  to  take  root,  it  would  spread,  and  be  nourished  and 
cultivated  by  all  who  saw  or  tasted  of  its  fruit.  Yes,  Zebediah 
SpifTard,  who  had  seen  and  felt  the  evils  of  intemperance,  was 
the  projector  of  the  scheme  which  has  saved  thousands  from 
destruction.  But,  alas  !  the  obstacles  that  have  always  op 
posed  projectors,  did  not  fail  to  oppose  our  worthy  clergyman. 
The  mint-julep  before  breakfast  in  summer,  and  the  egg-nog^ 
in  winter  ;  the  enticing  toddy,  with  ice,  at  one  season,  and 
smoking  hot  at  the  other,  as  a  prelude  to  dirmer — with  all  the 
of  good  old  Jamaica  rum,  French  brandy,  real 


Jill  disposed  of.  219 

Hollands,  Irish  whiskey,  cordials  of  names  innumerable, 
(although  of  one  unchanging  nature,)  and  wines  from  every 
part  of  the  globe — all  were  in  dread  array  opposed  to  the 
water-drinker's  scheme. 

Who  can  describe  the  Vermonter's  astonishment,  when  on 
the  morning  after  his  arrival,  (it  was  in  the  month  of  June,) 
he  opened  his  eyes  at  the  noise  made  by  opening  the  chamber 
door,  and  saw  a  negro  approaching  his  bed  with  a  huge  bowl, 
crowned  with  the  fresh  and  fragrant  herb,  cool  from  the  gar 
den,  and  mingled  with  transparent  ice. 

'*  Master  says,  please  to  take  a  drink,  and  make  you  sleep 
till  breakfast  bell." 

Somewhat  oppressed  by  heat,  and  feverish  from  the  previous 
day's  travel,  he  looked  on  the  green  mint  and  ice — he  smelt 
the  odour  only  of  the  dew-spangled  leaves,  and  took  the  bait 
from  the  hands  of  the  slave — but  the  hook  was  soon  obvious 
to  his  unsophisticated  sense — and  as  the  fumes  of  rum  min 
gled  with  the  cool  atmosphere  that  surrounded  the  tempting 
draught — it  was  rejected  almost  with  disgust. 

The  negro  stared  !  4<  Him  very  good  to  mako  sleep, 
master." 

SpifTard  excused  himself — sent  his  thanks  to  the  hospitable 
planter,  who  wished  to  welcome  him  with  that  which  delighted 
himself — and  instead  of  Riint-julip,  took  water  and  a  walk 
before  breakfast. 

Another  repulsive  enemy  to  his  peace  was  ever  before  his 
eyes.  It  was  Skxvcry.  I  may  be  permitted  to  mention  it  as 
an  evil,  although  it  is  cherished  at  the  seat  of  my  country's 
government.  But  whether  I  have  permission  cr  not,  I  will 
say  that  I  think  and  know  it  to  be  an  evil ;  and  (any  sophistry 
to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding)  it  is  an  evil  that  congress  have 
power  and  right  to  root  out  of  the  district,  which  is  appropriated 
as  the  hallowed  spot  where  freemen  meet  to  deliberate  for  the 
welfare  of  freemen. 

SpifTard  knew  he  was  in  a  slave-holding  state,  but  he  be- 
liered,  until  he  became  a  resident,  that  slave-holders  con 
sidered  slavery  an  evil  entailed  upon  them,  which  they  wished 
to  throw  off,  and  he  was  willing  to  assist  them.  But  when  he 
saw  that  negroes  were  bred  for  exportation — that  they  were 
pen'd  irt  appropriate  places,  men,  women  and  children  shut  up 
together,  and  kept  in  drunkenness  until  the  prison  ship  was  ready 
to  carry  them  to  the  Mississippi — and  that  most  of  the  male  part 
of  his  congregation  ardently  desired  the  creation  of  more  slave 
stales  as  recipients  for  this  growth  of  their  plantations — he,  in 


220  Jill  disposed  of. 

melancholy  mood,  turned  his  face  home,  and  now  lives  with 
the  Littlejohns,  assisting  to  rear  the  children  of  his  aunt  Eliza, 
and  his  friends  Henry  and  Emma  Johnson,  in  the  precepts  of 
heavenly  love,  and  in  promoting  schools  and  societies  for  the 
diffusion  of  that  knowledge  which  will  bring  peace  to  indivi 
duals  and  to  nations. 

It  is,  perhaps,  unnecessary  to  say  (but  if  only  the  necessary 
had  been  said  or  written,  how  few  would  be  now  our  books, 
and  how  short  the  records  of  public  speaking)  that  a  moral  is  to 
be  drawn  from  the  story  of  Zebediah  Spiffard,  almost  as  use 
ful  as  from  that  of  George  Frederick  Cooke.  For  although 
temperance  guarded  the  Yermonter  fr6m  the  ills  which  the 
tragedian  drew  upon  himself,  yet  the  water-drinker  provided  a 
train  of  other  ills  to  torment  the  early  portion  of  his  life. 
Firstly  his  disingenuous  conduct  toward  his  uncle — then  by 
yielding  to  the  allurements  of  a  theatrical  life,  and  renouncing 
the  profession  intended  for  him — and  lastly,  by  his  precipitate 
choice  of  a  partner  for  life.  The  ills  flowing  from  these  false 
steps  were  consummated  in  the  last ;  and  the  faults  themselves 
were,  each  one,  consequent  upon  the  other.  Experience,  the 
great  castigator,  at  length  rendered  him  wise,  and  many  years 
of  his  life  were  passed  happily,  employed  in  the  offices  of 
teaching  and  assisting  others.  He  established  temperance  so 
cieties,  organized  schools,  and  assisted  in  every  good  plan 
proposed  by  others,  for  enlightening  and  ameliorating  the  con 
dition  of  the  poor  or  the  erring. 


THE    END. 


NOTE.  To  prevent  any  misapprehensions  respecting  Mr.  Cooke's  ma 
trimonial  affairs,  be  it  remembered,  that  the  fiction  of  a  marriage  with  Miss 
Johnson  must  be  dated  in  1790.  In  1796  he  was  really  married  to  Miss 
Daniels,  from  whom  he  was  divorced  in  1800.  In  1808  he  married  Miss 
Lamb,  who  took  refuge  from  him  with  her  friends,  in  March,  1809.  In 
November,  1810,  he  arrived  at  New  York,  and  on  the  19th  of  June,  1811, 
he  married  a  lady  of  Baltimore,  who  faithfully  nursed  him  until  his  death, 
in  September,  1812. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


2JuP63GC 


